


Sundered Skies: The Inquisition Reborn

by ealianarrain



Series: Sundered Skies [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Eventually Resolved Sexual Tension, F/F, F/M, Intrigue, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, POV Multiple, Slow slow slow burn, Team as Family, Unresolved Sexual Tension, this promises to be a monster the first chapter is nearly ten thousand words long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ealianarrain/pseuds/ealianarrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part I: An account of the events leading to the reformation and triumph of the modern Inquisition, compiled by eyewitness and esteemed author, Varric Tethras</p><p>Alternatively; Thedas is complicated, people are assholes right up until they're not, and life never takes you quite where you expect it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**_[The sheaf of parchment is crinkled and well-thumbed, puckered in one corner from an unidentifiable stain. Handwritten scribbles criss-cross the neatly printed pages, personal notes in a colloquial tone]_ **

 

SUNDERED SKIES; THE INQUISITION REBORN

 

 **** _~~I still think ‘This Shit Is Weird: The Inquisitor Trevelyan Story’ works better~~ _

_An account of the events leading to the reformation and triumph of the modern Inquisition, compiled by eyewitness and esteemed author, Varric Tethras_

 

_Foreword_

All of Thedas knows by now the story of the mage rebellion that began with the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry by the apostate Anders in 9:37 Dragon, resulting in Knight-Commander Meredith invoking the Right of Annulment against the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. The Champion of Kirkwall chose to fight alongside the innocent mages of the Circle, and then vanished, hoping to prevent the weight of the expected Exalted March from falling on the broken city he had come to call home.

But no march came. Instead the circles rose up, one by one, and the Mage-Templar war began in earnest, tearing across Southern Thedas and sparing none from its chaos.

This, however, is not that story.

*

In a quiet corner of the Free Marches, in 9:16 Dragon, Bann and Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick were delivered of their third and fourth children respectively – fraternal twin girls, joining their older sister, Liora Hanelle, and brother, Gavriel Edmund to form the perfect, pious family. Amaris Delwyn entered the world quietly in the early hours of the morning, followed a scant few minutes later by her impatient, and rather rowdier, sister. Caterina Ariel, the fourth and final child.

For most of the twins’ childhood, life was good. They were the children of nobility, a respected family with strong ties to the Chantry, who wanted for nothing – nothing, except, perhaps, the freedom to live as they chose.

The eldest, Liora, seemed a more than adequate heir – beautiful, intelligent, and innately skilled at the Game, well-loved by the townspeople and dutiful to her House. Gavriel showed some promise with a sword and was likely to enter the Templar Order as so many of his ancestors had before him. Amaris and Caterina were promised to the Chantry from an early age, and grew up with the understanding they would enter their novitiate after they turned eighteen. Amaris accepted this with grace and enthusiasm, leading a life dedicated to the study of the Chant and service to Andraste. Caterina, while no less faithful, was somewhat less....pliable. Under the tutelage of her Nevarran grandmother, Ariel Pentaghast, she learned the arts of the rogue, extra-curricular lessons which her father considered a distasteful, but necessary outlet for his youngest child’s excess energy.

And so, life in this quiet corner of the Free Marches would have continued ad nauseum, filled with the small trials and tribulations of families everywhere – had not disaster struck in 9:29 Dragon. The Bann and his Orlesian wife travelled to Val Royeaux, as was their custom, accompanied by Liora and Gavriel, while the twins remained in Ostwick under the care of their Grandmother. What should have been a routine family visit to the capital of the Empire led instead to a crack in the foundations of the once close-knit family which would never truly heal. When the Ostwick carriage returned home it contained only Gavriel, too ill to stand, confined to bed-rest for months while he recovered from an unspecified poison. Two weeks later his parents would return from Val Royeaux – without their eldest daughter.

 Liora Hanelle Trevelyan would not return to Ostwick.

Upon his recovery, Gavriel Trevelyan took up his sister’s mantle of heir to the House, putting aside any and all dreams of becoming a Templar Knight. By all accounts, the years that followed were fraught, the impending eighteenth nameday of the twins growing ever closer, and Caterina’s protests ever more strident. Shortly after the nameday celebrations had concluded, they were packed off to the Ostwick Chantry and the care of the Revered Mother Elain, with their father presumably breathing a sigh of relief.

A premature sigh, as it turns out, when Caterina returned less than a fortnight later, defiant and carrying a letter from the Revered Mother warmly exhorting that she be allowed to serve the Maker in whatever way she saw fit - without the unwelcome confines of Chantry robes. With no other trade to occupy her, Caterina took on the running of the manor and estate as her brother’s aide, filling the duty his one-day wife would hold, and caring for their ailing grandmother, until 9:37 Dragon, shortly before the rebellion, when Ariel Pentaghast slipped away quietly in her sleep, leaving her youngest granddaughter the gift of her twin swords from her dragon-hunting days. With her grandmother gone and her brother’s nuptials to Lady Jeannette McClaren recently passed, Caterina was finally free to make her own way in the world.

Even the bravest of us, can lack impetus when faced with the total unknown however. Foreseeing this, Ariel Pentaghast included a plea in her will for a small amount of her ashes to be taken to her homeland of Nevarra and scattered over the countryside where she had spent her girlhood days – knowing that the only one who would feel compelled to do so, would be her namesake and heir in more ways than one.

Picture then, reader, a woman of twenty-one, spirited and well-trained, but unversed in the ways of the world, sneaking from her family’s estate in the grey light of dawn. Her hair is dark, but glints red in the rising sun, cut unevenly at the nape of her neck as if someone had taken a knife to her ponytail without the aid of a mirror. She wears leathers and light armour so new they creak faintly as she moves, and strapped to her waist beneath her shirt is a sturdy iron tin containing her grandmother’s ashes. She leads a loyal grey charger by the reins, his intelligent eyes resigned to whatever new folly of his mistress this pre-dawn flight entails, standing solid while she mounts and urges him away from the quiet fields of Ostwick and towards the unknown.

Little did our heroine’s faithful steed know that he would not see the fields of home for some three years hence – for in that moment, Lady Caterina Trevelyan became ‘Kit’, travelling rogue and mercenary for hire, determined to make her way in the world.

The board was set, the players in motion. From Ostwick, a girl rides towards her future. In Kirkwall, the Champion and his friends struggle to steady the ever-shifting balance of power, a Knight-Captain is torn between duty to his Commander and duty to his beliefs, and an apostate plots murder. In Val Royeaux, a powerful enchantress rides the whispers of civil war in the court of the Empress, an ambassador weaves a tangled, shining web, and at the White Spire a ghost slips through the shadows, a knife in the dark. In the wilds, a Grey Warden and an elvhen apostate roam their separate ways, each seeking answers.  In Tevinter, an Altus mage curses the follies of his nation and nurses quiet plans, on the Storm Coast, a Qunari _Ben-Hassrath_ watches and waits, in the cities Red Jenny listens to the words in the wind – and above it all, the Left and Right hands of the Divine stretch out to shape the fate of Thedas.

 _Here_ , reader, is where our story starts.

 

**_[Written in a hasty scrawl by a different hand in dark green ink]_ **

_Do you have any idea how weird it is to read about yourself in the third person? What am I saying, you apparently write about yourself in the third person on a regular basis._ _Call this one grudgingly approved, I guess. Did Hawke feel as weird about this when you wrote ‘Tale of the Champion’?_

_Oh, definitely try and sneak your first title past your editor. The mental image of my stuffier relatives expressions will keep me laughing for weeks._

_\- K_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter to follow shortly, hopefully - putting together the last edits and chapter notes this afternoon. This story is two things really - an exercise in getting my hand back into writing long stories after a forced break where I've been too busy with classes to do so, and also an exercise in playing with Thedas' world building, because damn this place is fascinating and it's giving me an excuse to research all kinds of real-world places.  
> Constructive criticism greatly appreciated. I'm aiming to not get bogged down in rehashing the scenes we all see in gameplay and played out a thousand times over (with much more skill than I) in fic - I want to focus on the character driven moments behind the scenes, hence the multiple POV of the NPC's and excerpts from personal writings.


	2. The Road Less Travelled By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Where were you, when it happened?'  
> When one event shifts the consciousness of a nation, it's hard not to have that moment, however mundanely you may have been occupied, fix itself indelibly in your mind. As one person dies, thousands of miles away, another contemplates their lunch. One mourns, another greets a new life. Life plays out in thousands of ways, thousands of tales.  
> In 9:37 Dragon, the stone was cast and the ripples began to travel outward.

  **[ _The front page of Kit Trevelyan’s travelling journal is a tattered and inkstained thing, swirling, thoughtless doodles around the edges. In the centre, an enumerated list tracks down the page, an arrow at the bottom exhorting the reader to turn over, clearly written over a lengthy period of time in varying inks and sizes. It is entitled ‘RULES TO LIVE BY’]_**

  1. _Courage, kindness and integrity in all things._
  2. _‘Giving people the benefit of the doubt’ **does not** mean ‘Behave like a blindly trusting greenhorn’ you utter **pillock**. _
  3. _Don’t drink anything that has ‘black’, ‘death’ or ‘woe’ in the name. In any language._
  4. _If it itches, see a healer._



 *

The early dawn found Kit on the edge of the Trevelyan lands, dressed in new dark leathers, her grandmother’s swords strapped to her back, Gaheris picking along at her heels, ears pricked and eyes bright. She adjusted the saddlebags with fingers that kept trying to shake, giddy nerves rolling in her stomach, and ran a hand through her newly shorn hair, cropped short and ragged around her ears. The back of her neck felt oddly chilled, freed for the first time in her memory from the heavy curtain that had fallen nearly to her lower back.

Gaheris snorted, nudging her, and she gathered her resolve, mounting swiftly and tugging her half-gloves into place as she took up the reins. The fields stretched before them, misty and grey, up towards the slopes of the Vimmark Mountains, and beyond them? The _world_.

‘We’ve a lot of ground to cover, and quickly.’ she murmured, stroking the charger’s bowed neck as he shifted under her. ‘Ready, beauty?’

He took off like a hawk in flight at a touch of her heels, the manor shrinking swiftly into the distance behind them, the screaming of the gulls beyond the city walls of Ostwick receding into the distance. Kit drew her hood up to ward off the morning dew, and brushed her hand over the comforting shape of the locket tucked beneath her shirt. Fastened securely to the inside of her waistband, the small iron tin containing her grandmother’s ashes was a reassuring pressure against her hip – indeed, almost as reassuring as the weight of the twin swords strapped to her back.

‘ _Hope you’re paying attention, Nana.’_  she thought, giddy and exultant, and gave the charger his head, rising up in her stirrups to crouch along his neck, horse and rider flowing as one, eating up the distance. The wind stung her eyes, whipping the tears away before they had chance to form, and she hollered into the dawn, the thundering beat of Gaheris’ hooves surging through her blood until she could not distinguish them from her racing heart.

 By the time the sun was fully up, she was well hidden off the beaten track, up high in the foothills at the eastern end of the Vimmark Mountains. If she continued to ride north-west cross-country, it would bring her eventually to the banks of Minanter River, from there to turn true west and follow the snaking, silver ribbon as closely as she could until she passed the borders of Nevarra – by which time she would be well out of the reach of any search party sent by the Bann. She had taken care to avoid leaving an easily recognisable trail, leaving the estate from the western fields rather than the road, and following the trails that the stablehands exercised the coursers on. By the time anyone realised Gaheris was missing from his stall, the morning exercise would have been completed, churning over any hoofprints that might show where they had struck off into the foothills.

She grinned at her reflection in the shallow, rocky pool they had stopped by, fingering the roughly shorn edge of her hair, swept back from her face with a touch of wax to keep it out of her eyes. It was tangled and windswept, her cheeks flushed under a layer of dust kicked up by Gaheris’ hooves on the summer-thirsty lands, and already a thin crescent of dirt had built up under her fingernails. Her hands were callused from years with sword and rein – give them another two days on the road, and no-one would look twice at another travel-stained rogue in nondescript leathers with a do-it-yourself haircut, no matter how widely the family circled her description.

Gaheris drank deeply from the pool and tossed his head, sending shimmering droplets arcing through the air, dampening her hair and cheek. She laughed, splashing a handful of water at him and making him dance back, hooves clacking on the rock, before she scrubbed her hands as clean as she could and pulled bread and smoked meat from her pack along with the worn map she had taken from the library wall, tracing the path she had marked. It was tempting to stop off at the settlements she had never seen – Wildervale and Tantervale, maybe even travel east to Starkhaven  - but no, they could wait. So soon after her sudden departure from her family lands, there were too likely to be eyes watching for her. Once she had fulfilled her grandmother’s wish, spent some time on the road, let the hunt die down – there would be time later to explore all the places she’d only heard tales off. Maybe she could even travel to Kirkwall and see the famous Champion for herself.

No, until then, better stick to the plan. She was well-supplied, there would be no need for her to stop anywhere larger than the occasional farm for trade, and she knew how to hunt rabbits and grouse.

She finished her makeshift lunch, appetite whetted by excitement and the fresh mountain air, and tightened Gaheris’ girth. The charger was too well-trained to try and puff up to keep it slack, but he still managed to project an air of extreme resignation as she checked the saddle wouldn’t simply slide over.

‘Big baby.’ she muttered, tugging on his mane and replaced her stores in the saddlebags, rolling up her cloak and fastening it on the saddle behind her as the sun rose higher. ‘Let’s get on then – need to have a found a good spot to camp well before it gets properly dark.’

They rode on. At the highest peak of the eastern foothills, she reigned the charger in and allowed herself one, single look back. The fields of Ostwick stretched away towards the city in the distance, smaller than she had ever seen it, the air missing the salt tang of the breeze from the harbour. On the edge of the horizon she could just make out the faintest shimmer of the Waking Sea, edged silver against the blue sky – beyond it, out of sight, Ferelden, Brandels Reach and Alamar.

‘One day.’ Kit told Gaheris, patting his neck. ‘We’ll ride all the way to Denerim. Even if it means crossing the Frostbacks.’

For the moment though, her road was clear. She turned her back resolutely on the only lands she had ever known, scorning her own weakness as something small and just a little afraid welled up in her gut, her hand going instinctively to the locket at her throat.

_Courage, kindness, integrity._

‘Courage.’ she murmured, and urged Gaheris on. By the time night began to draw in, they had descended to the lowest hills and made camp in a small gully, sheltered beneath a rocky outcrop that formed a shallow cave. The setting sun sapped the warmth quickly from the air, and Kit wrapped herself up in her cloak and bedroll, unwilling to make a fire and potentially draw the attention of the wolfpacks that wandered the Vimmarks. It was unlikely they would come this far down, but the thought of testing the theory didn’t appeal.

 

*

 

**_[Excerpt from the travel journal of Kit Trevelyan,_ _11 Justinian, 9:37 Dragon]_ **

_Well, it’s done. We’ve made good time – could have pushed on further, but I’d rather leave the foothills in daylight, give me a chance to spot any patrols from Ostwick that may be out looking for me from above. They’ll know I’m gone now – even if they hadn’t put together Gaheris missing and Nana’s urn having been moved, Gav and Amaris must have found the letters I left them._

_My one regret is not being there to see father’s face. Spiteful, I know, but he always said I wouldn’t have the courage to go through with my grand plans – too soft and spoiled. Mother never said anything when he would begin ranting at me, but she would watch me so closely...I think she knew._

_Well, she was the one who named me after her dragon-hunting mother, really, what were they expecting?_

_I left enough misdirection in my letters to Gav and Amaris that any search parties should be riding for Markham first, expecting me to have stopped there for supplies. With Andraste’s blessing I’ll be past the lake at Wildervale before they realise I sent them on a wild goose chase._

_Its cold, and dark, and I won’t lie, I’m a little afraid. It’s easy to be brave in the light of day, harder when you can’t see more than five paces and you can hear the wolves howling in the distance. But my eyes are adjusting already, I can write this by the light of the moon (though mother would weep if she saw my penmanship). I have to believe the rest of me will adjust too. The unknown is always frightening, but to allow that fear to keep you static is...folly._

_I’m going to try and get some sleep, I was too excited to do more than doze last night, and we’ve been riding since dawn. Having Gaheris nearby is reassuring – I can almost close my eyes and pretend I’ve fallen asleep in his stall again._

_**[In much firmer, regular hand after a small space]**_

_Maker, my penmanship really was atrocious last night. Oh well, it’s legible._

_Sleeping on the ground is chilly and uncomfortable, and I kept twitching awake at every sound, but waking in the dawn to the sound of Gaheris grazing nearby and the birds singing was...special. The world felt fresh and hushed and new – even if I had to make a small fire to try and dry the dew from my blanket._

_Breakfasting on hot tea, apples and some toasted cheese if I manage not to drop it in the embers. My toes are frozen._

*

 

**[ _A letter from one Hand to another. 15 Justinian, 9:37 Dragon]_**

_It is as we feared. Elthina refuses to leave her flock, and the city winds ever tighter. Knight-Commander Meredith sees shadows upon shadows, and you can taste the fear in the air. It will not be long before something gives. I spoke to Knight-Captain Cullen, the survivor of Kinloch Hold. He has no reason to love mages, but even he is disquieted by recent events in the Gallows, and First Enchanter Orsino is close to desperation. We must tread carefully. This city is a powder-keg searching for a match._

_The Resolutionists have moved on, I will continue to track them. The Champion and Prince Vael have gone to convince Elthina once more to come to Val Royeaux, but I do not believe they will be successful. She is convinced she is the only thing maintaining the balance of power in the city, and she may not be wrong...but I fear she will not be enough, not for much longer._

_\- L_

 *

‘You seem troubled, my child.’ Dorothea said peaceably over the rim of her teacup, aged fingers stained with ink as she looked up at Cassandra, disturbing her from her frustrated pacing.

‘A letter from Leliana, most Holy.’ she said, holding out the parchment. ‘She passed through Kirkwall on the trail of the Resolutionists. The news...is not good.’

‘Ah, Kirkwall.’ Dorothea sighed. ‘Ever a thorn in the side of peace.’

She took the letter and perused it, brow furrowed faintly as Cassandra resumed her pacing.

‘A powder keg indeed, to quote popular parlance. Kirkwall has never been an easy place, the Circle is too large by far since the burning of Starkhaven’s Tower of Magi, and the influx of Fereldan refugees following the Blight will not have aided matters. Meredith is a hard woman – her idea of justice is blunt and swift, and powered by divine fervour. She would have suited the ages of the Exalted Marches much better than the careful manoeuvring of the Game.’

‘Something she and I can sympathise on.’ Cassandra said grimly, leaning against the window to look out over Val Royeaux. ‘Perhaps we could force Elthina - ’

‘What, kidnap a Grand Cleric?’ Dorothea said, arching a brow. ‘And then what? Apologise as we release the sack from over her head? No, Cassandra. If she will not be swayed by words, we must respect her choice – and her devotion to her flock.'

 She set the letter down carefully, smoothing it out and gazing out the window with a resolute expression. ‘We must trust in the will of our Maker, Cassandra – matters in Kirkwall will run their course, given time. We will wait, and we will see.’

  

_*_

 

**_[A letter to Amaris Trevelyan of the Ostwick Chantry, 29 Solace, 9:37 Dragon]_ **

_Ris,_

_Pass the enclosed on to Father, would you? Still alive, still free. Nevarra is beautiful, Gaheris saved my bacon – again. I’ll bring you back a souvenir._

_All Souls Eve tomorrow. Apparently Nevarra celebrates in...unusual ways. Really, in a country that purposefully reanimates their dead, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. No wonder Nana was adamant about being cremated in Ostwick._

_Should reach Great-Aunt Bergit’s estate tomorrow afternoon, I wrote and got permission to scatter Nana’s ashes from this ‘Boar’s Rock’ she named in her will. Aunt Bergit’s away in the City for the celebrations, but she said she’d leave me a map._

_After that, who knows? Poke Gav for me when you see him._

_Maker watch over you._

_K_

**_[Enclosed, on a separate sheet]_ **

_Dear Bann Trevelyan_

_I must thank you for the bounty posters you had pinned on Chanter’s Boards across the Marches – without them, I fear I would not have found my current employer. Kapitän Sascha_ _and her small mercenary band initially sought me out hoping to package me back to Ostwick and claim the reward – however she swiftly realised how much more benefit I could bring as a member of her company. Currently we’re providing protection for a caravan of pilgrims. Isn’t life funny?_

_Standing on my own two feet, Father._

*

 

‘What are you scribbling?’ came an accented voice from the mouth of the tent, but Kit did not look up from the piece of parchment she had braced against a sawn-off log on her knee. The fire was burning low, most of the Draufgänger having already retired to their tents, and she knew their leader’s insatiable curiosity wouldn’t keep her back for long.

‘Come see for yourself.’ she said over her shoulder, signing the letter to her father with a satisfied flourish. A moment later a solid weight settled against her, draped over her back, Sascha’s long, fine braids spilling in a waterfall of heavy silk over her shoulder as two brown, solidly muscled arms wrapped around her from behind, and she felt the older woman tilt her head curiously to peer over her shoulder, lips moving slightly against Kit’s earlobe as she read the neat penmanship, then snorted indelicately.

‘Funny.’ she said dryly. ‘Really I only kept you because of the horse. Once I’ve earned his trust I’ll dump you in the river.’

Kit signed the note to her father with a smug flourish, ignoring the bitter little flame that burned low in her gut, and bared her teeth at the older woman, yelping when she fastened her hand around the tufts of rough-cut hair at the nape of her neck and pulled sharply.

‘Never going to happen.’ Kit sang, rubbing gingerly at her tender scalp. ‘We worked on a new trick today, show you tomorrow.’

Sascha caught her hands, tutting quietly at the torn callus weeping on one of her palms. ‘Still soft-fingered, little cub.’

‘I’m a rogue, we can’t all have hands like granite.’ Kit retorted, but submitted to having the callus – an unfortunate side-effect of being the newest recruit in the pack, and therefore the go-to for repetitive, tiring chores like chopping firewood – cleaned and dressed by their captain.

‘Tomorrow is the thirtieth day of Solace.’ Sascha said as she bent her head over Kit’s palm, her rough-worn fingers deft. ‘All Souls Night. We will leave the pilgrims at the Grand Necropolis at noon, our contract complete – I give the pack leave to seek their own amusements on All Souls Day, and then spend the next few days in the city while I search for new employment. I know you have your own contract to fulfil, but what will you do after?’

‘Stay, if you’ll have me.’ Kit said. ‘My coin won’t last forever, and all I wish to do is travel.’

‘Is that all?’ Sascha pressed, tying off the bandage. ‘You seemed delighted when we accepted the contract to protect the pilgrimage.’

‘You know I’m devout.’ Kit said. ‘I made a terrible Chantry sister, but that doesn’t mean I can’t strive to do the Maker’s work in the world. I just have to juggle that with more prosaic needs – coin, a tent, food, the occasional new dagger-hilt...’

‘A practical stance.’ Sascha said. ‘Very well. I will show you where the pack lodges when we come to the city, and you can return to us once you have taken care of your business tomorrow.’

She got to her feet, sliding her fingers lingeringly up Kit’s throat to lift her chin as the younger woman shivered faintly, her lip tilting up minutely, eyes narrowed and heated.

‘I cannot say I am not glad you will stay longer.’ Sascha murmured, and vanished into her tent. Kit grinned viciously, and snagged the short letter to Amaris to add a postscript.

**_[A hasty addition to a previous note]_ **

****

_PS: If I told you I was on the verge of hooking up with the thirty-two year old captain of a mercenary band called the ‘Draufgänger’, would you a) cheer, b) pretend it wasn’t happening, or c) pray for my immortal soul? Sascha’s brilliant, I think you’d really like her._

*

 

‘Here, let me help you with that.’ Kit said politely to the elderly pilgrim struggling to lift a heavy pack from the back of the wagon. Around them, others were setting down their loads in the main square, stretching and sharing flasks, some praying quietly at the side of an ornate fountain and bathing their hands in the chill water.

‘Bless you child.’ the woman said, revealing the robes of a chantry mother beneath her shabby travelling cloak as she moved out of the way. ‘Thank you, for your protection. Maker turn his gaze on you.’

‘And on you, mother.’ Kit said, bowing courteously and making to turn away before something made her pause. ‘Actually, mother – may I ask your blessing?’

She fumbled the small bag containing the sealed tin of Ariel’s ashes from beneath her shirt, sliding it out into her palm. ‘I’m – on a sort of pilgrimage of my own, I suppose. These are my grandmothers ashes, some of them at least. She was Nevarran, by birth, but moved to the Orlais when she married, then to the Free Marches to live with my parents and help raise my siblings and I. Her last wish was to have some of her ashes scattered over her childhood lands. I’m going there to scatter them at dawn.’

‘You have travelled far to bring comfort to your grandmother’s soul.’ the mother smiled, and held her hands over the tin to speak the ritual words. ‘I bless both her and you, my daughter – a dutiful child is a credit to the Maker. Go in His light.’

‘Thank you, mother.’ Kit said, as the jagged grief still burning low in her gut at the loss of her grandmother finally began to ease. ‘Your words are...comforting.’

She tucked the pouch away against her heart, and leaned against Gaheris, burying her face in his thick mane. He stood solidly in the bustle of the square, twisting his neck to nudge his muzzle against her hip, snuffling at the pouches on her belt.

‘Careful.’ Kit admonished, swiping a cuff over her eyes. ‘Some of those have poison in them.’

She glanced up at the high sun, gauging the time, and shouldered her light pack, swinging up into the saddle, gaze raking over the crowd until she found Sascha.

‘Are you away, cub?’ she said, glancing at Gaheris in amusement as the charger lowered his head menacingly at her. Kit twitched the reins in admonishment and he snorted, pawing at the ground and looking away aloofly.

‘No time like the present.’ Kit said, and caught the small, fat coin-purse Sascha tossed up to her. ‘Ooh, riches.’

‘One day you’ll have the accent to match that sense of awe little lady.’ Sascha said. ‘Go. We will see you in the morning, yes? The last parades will start at sundown.’

‘I’ll be there.’ Kit promised, and clasped her arm. ‘Save a space in a bed for me.’

‘One better.’ Sascha murmured, turning her hand over to press a lingering, playful kiss to the inside of her wrist. ‘I’ll save a space in mine.’

Kit grinned at her, even as she was painfully aware of the blush erupting across her fair skin,  Stein and Axel guffawing from their perch on the wagon, pretending to swoon. She made an extremely rude gesture at them and Axel howled so hard he nearly slid from his seat, leaning heavily against Stein’s massive bicep for support.

‘Your ancestors turn in their graves, little lady!’ he gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. ‘Such vulgarity from a noble scion of House Trevelyan!’

‘Shuddup you idjit.’ Kit hissed, looking around furtively, and Stein elbowed him gently.

‘No family.’ he reminded. ‘Only Draufgänger.’

Axel looked mildly abashed – for all of three seconds. Kit rolled her eyes.

‘I’ll see you clowns in the morning.’ she said, urging Gaheris forward with a shift of her weight in the saddle. ‘Don’t do anything too dumb while I’m gone.’

‘How could we,’ Stein called, folding his arms across his chest with all the gravitas of a glacier proceeding, ‘when you take all the dumb with you, yes?’

‘Funny. Real funny.’ Kit muttered, pointing a warning finger at him, and urged Gaheris out of the busy square at an easy trot, winding her way down the hill to the gate, past the streams of pilgrims and revellers come to celebrate All Souls in the City of the Dead. At the great gates, they streamed in past checkpoints, carters arguing with sentries over goods missing from manifests, and she paused by one to confirm her directions before urging Gaheris into a ground-covering canter, relishing the freedom to move at their own pace again. While travelling with the pilgrims had been pleasant, sharing stories and bread around the fire, it had chained them both somewhat to the slow pace of the caravan – at least, until Sascha grew tired of their twitching and sent them out ranging.

Beneath her, Gaheris tossed his head and bolted forward like a green colt, all but prancing as they forded a narrow stream and splashed up onto the western road, to the cheers of a line of children perched in their father’s cart. He paused, reared dramatically, pawing at the air, and Kit laughed, bracing herself in the stirrups, cloak flaring in the wind as he fell into a gallop away from the city.

‘Show off.’ she said fondly, crouched low over his neck as they charged across the rocky heath, the wind howling and snatching at her cloak.  The manor belonging to her Great-Aunt Bergit was tucked into the lee halfway up the face of sharply imposing cliff, overlooking its lands and the small village below, and Kit brought Gaheris back to an easy walk as they made their way up the main street, examining with wide eyes the altars at each cottage, lanterns set out on stakes and carved with improbably dancing skeletons, the candles burning bright against the rapidly gathering autumn twilight. Children ran from house to house with faces painted with charcoal and chalk to resemble grinning skulls, and she frowned, looking more closely at their clothes. Some wore rags, others smart frocks that probably served as their Chantry best – but scattered amongst them came others wearing mocked-up approximations of noble fashions, puffed sleeves and polished beads serving in the place of jewels. Another wore rough hessian daubed to look like the robes of the Divine herself, another a battered tin breastplate painted with the sigil of the Templars, wooden sword in hand and cooking-pot helmet balanced firmly on his head.

‘...nope, no idea.’ Kit said, fascinated despite herself, and rode on, through the village and up towards the manor looming in the lee of the cliff, black-walled and imposing. Nevarran architecture, it seemed, leaned towards the decidedly...spiky.

‘State your business!’ cried a heavy Orlesian accent as she rode through the open gates, and had Gaheris been less well-trained he would have shied at the sudden appearance of a groundskeeper, barring their way with a rake and a scowl. As it was, the charger planted his hooves hard and tossed his head, snorting in irritation as Kit shifted her weight automatically in response to the sharp halt.

‘I’m here to pick up a package from Lady Bergit.’ she said, narrowing her eyes at the man. ‘I’m her great-niece. She said she would leave it with her secretary.’

The man scoffed openly, looking her up and down, and Kit felt herself flush dully. She snarled under her breath, and Gaheris took a menacing step forward at a twitch from her heels.

‘My name is Caterina Trevelyan, granddaughter of Ariel Pentaghast and youngest daughter of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick.’ she snapped. ‘Funnily enough, I don’t really look the part of a noble after riding all the way from the Free Marches, but for better or worse, that’s what I was born. Now, are you going to get out of my way and let me conduct my business with my family, or am I going to have to ride over you?’

She dropped one hand to Gaheris neck and he lowered his head menacingly, visibly squaring up. ‘This is Gaheris, an Ostwick-trained battle-charger. Have you ever heard of the horses of House Trevelyan? Yes? Well he is the best of them, and he answers to me.’

 The man sputtered but hopped out of the way with alacrity, clutching his rake to his chest.

‘Just you use the kitchen door!’ he commanded as Gaheris trotted sharply past him. ‘Far too much riff-raff around today, bothering her Ladyship.’

 ‘Riff-raff.’ Kit repeated mockingly under her breath, and laughed. ‘A compliment.’

She dismounted in the kitchen courtyard by the well, rolling up her sleeves and drawing up water through a handpump to splash into the dark stone trough for Gaheris to drink from. As he slaked his thirst she scrubbed the dust and filth from her hands and forearms, then having caught sight of her reflection in the rippling water, threw moderation to the winds and dunked her whole head beneath the surface, scrubbing her fingers through her cropped hair. She came up spluttering, the icy water burning on her skin, and found a kitchen-maid laughing at her in the doorway.

‘A towel?’ she offered, pulling one from the belt of her apron. ‘What brings you to our door, traveller?’

‘I’m here to pick up a letter.’ Kit said, accepting the towel gratefully. ‘I’m – actually Lady Bergit’s great-niece, from House Trevelyan in Ostwick. I know I don’t really look it right now, but I have a letter from her as proof. My grandmother – her sister – died recently, and I came to scatter her ashes over her childhood home, as was her last wish. I wrote to Great-Aunt Bergit to seek permission, and she said she would leave a map to a place called Boar’s Rock with her secretary.’

‘Oh! Oh, forgive my familiar manner, your Ladyship - ’

‘Please.’ Kit said gently, stopping her before she could curtsy. ‘No apologies are needed. I’ve all but renounced my title, I’ve been working as a mercenary.’

The maid gave her a deeply dubious look, and Kit stifled a laugh.

‘Seriously, look at me.’ she said, spreading her arms. ‘Your groundskeeper just threatened me with a rake.’

‘Oh that man.’ the girl sighed. ‘Apologies, my Lady, he’s as bad-tempered as they come, and he hates the All Souls celebrations. The more he shouts, the more the children tease him, and it becomes a vicious circle. Please, follow me – I’ll take you to her Ladyship’s secretary. Will your horse be alright here?’

Kit scrubbed the corner of the towel over her face one more time and raked her hands through her damp hair to force it into some semblance of tidiness. ‘Yes, he’ll be fine. Gaheris, wait.’

The charger tossed his head and went back to grazing at the grass growing at the edge of the courtyard.

She followed the maid through a large, well scrubbed kitchen and up into the body of the manor, all imposing stone-walls and severe portraits staring down from between the arched windows. Kit tread softly, the back of her neck prickling faintly, feeling uncomfortably like a fraud in her road-dusty leathers, her grandmother’s short swords bound across her back.

A pair of dark eyes arrested her from one portrait and she stopped in her tracks, staring. Ariel Pentaghast gazed inscrutably down from a gilt-framed oil painting, her gaze seeming to track her granddaughter around the room, seated on a large grey rock in a smart, dark gown. Her hair was dark and lustrous, face unlined, but it was unmistakeable Ariel, a short sword the twin of the pair riding on either side of Kit’s spine laid across her lap, be-ringed fingers cradling the hilt with familiarity. Two other young women stood on either side of her, dressed similarly, and Kit edged nearer to read the small plaque beneath the painting, only to find it written in Nevarran.

‘I knew I should have paid better attention to my tutors.’ she muttered, and the kitchen maid laughed softly, coming to stand beside her.

‘Lady Bergit Pentaghast, Lady Ariel Pentaghast, Lady Andra Pentaghast.’ she read aloud. ‘Daughters of Lord Aleksander and Lady Rosa.’

‘Well I wasn’t far off.’ Kit said philosophically, straightening to meet her grandmothers gaze again. ‘Hello, Nana.’

‘I can see a resemblance, if you don’t mind my impertinence.’ the kitchen maid said, her hands tucked in her apron as she glanced from Kit to the painting. ‘You inherited the Lady Rosa’s hair, my Lady. See, Lady Andra had it too – that dark red.’

‘Huh.’ Kit said, peering closer to see her Great-Aunt Andra did indeed have the same dark hair that shifted to red under the light of the setting sun in her portrait. ‘So it came from Great-Grandmother Rosa then. I wondered – my siblings all took after my blonde mother or dark-haired father. If I hadn’t been a twin I think Father might have worried.’

The kitchen-maid giggled and opened her mouth to say something, only to be interrupted by another voice calling down the gallery – raspy with age, but no less strong for it.

‘Cara, is that you? Who are you talking to?’

‘It’s me, Lady Andra!’ Cara called back, and hurried forward to assist an old woman emerging from the double doors at the end of the gallery. ‘You have a guest – Lady Bergit said she would be coming. It’s your Great-Niece.’

‘Ariel’s granddaughter?’ Andra said, straightening a little as Cara took her arm. The old woman’s hair was pure silver, her back stooped with age, but her dark eyes were sharp and intent. ‘Now, which one are you again?’

‘Caterina, your Ladyship.’ Kit said, and bowed. ‘The youngest. But I go by Kit.’

Andra cackled. ‘Ah yes, I recall you now! Ariel spoke of you often in her letters – ‘Andra,’ she would say ‘you have been reborn in my little Kit. She has your hair and your temper.’ I hoped I would get the chance to meet you myself one day. Come into the library, child, let me see you properly – this gallery is gloomy as the tomb.’

She held out her arm and Kit took it carefully as Cara hurried ahead of them and held the door into a long, warmly-lit library, comfortable chairs gathered around a cheerfully burning fire, bright lamps lit against the dusk gathering outside. She helped the old woman over to a comfortable wing backed chair, and straightened, hands awkward at her sides in response to her Great-Aunt’s imperious gesture to stand in the circle of lamplight.

‘Ariel’s swords.’ Andra commented, dark eyes dancing. ‘You really were her favourite. Cara, bring us refreshments please, and the map from Bergit’s desk.’

‘Yes my Lady.’ Cara said, curtsying, and hurried from the library as Kit shed her cloak and swords, sinking into the chair Andra gestured to.

‘You’ve had a long ride.’ she said. ‘So tell me, how did the sheltered daughter of my idiot nephew-in-law end up joining a mercenary band?’

Kit raised an eyebrow. ‘Who said anything about mercenaries?’

‘The Draufgänger have a reputation around here.’ Andra said. ‘And first your father wrote to Bergit exhorting her to search you out and send you home in disgrace, swiftly followed by your sister begging her to do precisely the opposite. Bit of a family feud, hmm? Good. I never did like your father.’

‘That seems to the general consensus.’ Kit said, a touch sourly. ‘I was promised to the Chantry with Amaris on our eighteenth nameday, but Revered Mother Elain sent me home after a fortnight with a stern note to my father about the value of letting children choose their own paths. Since then I’ve been helping Gavriel manage the estate and taking care of Nana when her health began to fail. He’s married now, so Jeanette took on the management duties, and with Nana gone...there wasn’t anything left to keep me in Ostwick, and I could see marriage proposals on the horizon.’

‘Kicked out of the Chantry!’ Andra cackled. ‘Yes, Ariel said as much. But your sister flourishes there, it seems?’

‘We’re twins in name only.’ Kit said. ‘Opposites in everything else. She would have devoted herself to the Chantry regardless of our parents’ wishes, they just happened to align. I wanted to serve, still do – but as Mother Elain said herself, I make a terrible Chantry sister. I would have joined the Templars if the Bann hadn’t been so hidebound by tradition.’

‘Well, you were right about the marriage proposals.’ Andra said as Cara returned with a tray of sugared fruit pastries and a decanter of rich mulled wine. ‘Your father’s letter stated as much. Sounds like you’re well out of it, to me. I never married, though I had my share of lovers. Bergit has finally despaired of ever getting rid of me.’

She took the folded parchment Cara handed her and flipped it open. ‘This is the map to Boar’s Rock – it’s about a twenty minute ride, once you make it up the cliffpath. Did Ariel ever tell you about it?’

‘Only in passing.’ Kit said. ‘I gathered she had a lot of happy memories from there.’

‘It’s where the three of us used to train, and play. The rock overlooks a large lake, perfect for swimming and diving from – shaped like a boar’s head. You’ll know it when you see it, I would come with you but these bones aren’t what they used to be.’

‘I’ll find it.’ Kit said. ‘I was planning to ride up there and camp, scatter the ashes at dawn and ride back into town to meet my pack.’

‘Nonsense.’ Andra said stoutly. ‘This is your first time in Nevarra, and today is All Soul’s Eve. You’ll have dinner with me and we will go down into the town to see the fires and dancing, then you can have a few hours sleep and ride up to Boar’s Rock before dawn. Once you come back down we’ll have breakfast together and you can write to your sister before you go back to the City – and you must promised to call again before you leave Nevarra. Bergit would like to meet you.’

‘I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.’ Kit hedged, and the old woman landed a hefty swipe on her calf with her cane.

‘Inconvenience!’ she cried. ‘Do you know how boring everything is once you’re in your eighties? I insist you entertain me, however briefly.’

Kit rubbed her smarting calf, unable to stop her helpless grin in the face of her Great-Aunt’s spirit. ‘My apologies. I’ll do my best.’

 

They dined in Andra’s drawing-room, having eschewed the gloomy length of the formal dining room by joint consensus, and Kit enjoyed the fine food and wine more than she ever had at home, helped along by Andra’s reminiscence of her younger days raising chaos with Ariel as her partner in crime. Once the meal had been cleared away, Andra donned a heavy velvet cloak in shades of black which rippled like the midnight sky and had another fetched for Kit -  along with plain black breeches borrowed from a stable boy and a parcel from some dusty trunk which she unwrapped gently to reveal a shirt of finest black silk, the sleeves made of gauzy layers slashed through with deep raven blue-black, the cloth gathered sharply at the wrist and waist. It fitted Kit like a glove and she clapped her wrinkled hands in delight, making her spin so the sleeves flared and rippled.

‘You must keep that, it’s not had a wearer since Bergit outgrew it horizontally some thirty years ago.’ she said, opening another box to reveal a pair of masks fashioned from feathers died white and brilliant blue, shaped to resemble the wings of a butterfly sprouting from the arch of the wearers nose. Kit lifted the one she was handed, and arched a querying brow at her Great-Aunt.

‘Welcome to Nevarra.’ the old woman told her, and tied the ribbon of her mask behind the twist of her hair before donning a dark veil that hid the gleaming silver. ‘We have held on to many of the more ancient traditions regarding today, some of which have met with Chantry disapproval. I’ll explain on the way.’

Kit wrapped herself in the heavy velvet and donned her own mask with careful fingers, offering her aunt her arm as they made their way out to where a small open carriage awaited, the driver also wrapped in black cloth and masked. As they rattled down towards the town and the bright fires burning there, Andra straightened the feathers of Kit’s mask with her fingers and assumed the air of a learnéd scholar.

‘What do you know of All Souls, Kit?’

‘...I know that originally it was a rite called ‘Funalis’ celebrated in dedication to Dumat.’ Kit said slowly, and winced at Andra’s arched brow. ‘I also know I’m not really meant to know that but we had a tutor that got carried away with the old tales. Let’s see...since the First Blight, the connection with Dumat and the Old Gods has been ignored, and it’s spent in remembrance of the dead, though the customs vary from place to place. The Chantry uses the time to remember the death and of Our Lady, with fires and plays to mark her immolation. Supposedly, from sundown on the thirtieth of Solis, until sunrise on the second day of Matrinalis, the veil between this world and the Fade is at its thinnest, and some believe that even the least powerful spirits can walk among us for this short period.’

Her great-aunt continued to gaze at her with a mildly impressed look from behind her mask, and Kit flushed dully.

‘I was under the impression from Ariel’s letters you were a little hellion who hid from her tutors.’ Andra said. ‘My mistake.’

‘Well, I hid from most of them.’ Kit hedged. ‘Er. I liked the ones who told stories. Particular about battles and magic. There was one that cottoned on and taught me the martial history of the Free Marches by making it read like a novel.’

‘Well, you may not find this as confusing as some tourists then.’ Andra told her as the carriage drew up in the square, where a large bonfire was lit and a lively fiddle playing as people danced through the streets, a heaving mass of colour and flickering flame winding in towards the central circle of bodies spinning around the flames.

‘I noticed the costumes.’ Kit called over the noise. ‘But I’ve never seen anything like this before!’

‘The Danse Macabre!’ Andra replied. ‘Death is the great leveller – eventually all of us, from Divine to labourer, noble to peasant child, are called to the Maker’s side, our bodies left behind. They dress and dance in reminder of that fact.’

‘And this?’ Kit asked, plucking at her cloak and mask.

‘We are the spirits who walk among them on the night of the thinnest veil.’ Andra laughed, and lifted her hands in a mock imitation of claws as a group of the village children swarmed the carriage, the youngest reaching out to Andra with familiarity as she produced candied fruits from somewhere about her person. The elder grabbed Kit, pulling off her cloak and tugging her insistently from the carriage.

‘I don’t know the dance!’ she laughed, trying to shake them off gently, but they were insistent -  and Andra prodded her none-too-gently with her cane to force her down the last step from the carriage, leaving her cloak bundled on the seat so she stood only in the tight breeches and silken shirt, mask hiding her face and her hair glinting in the firelight.

‘There are no steps to this dance.’ she said. ‘You’ve got strong young legs - just follow the pipers lead!’

She gestured to where the main fiddler danced and sawed away, sweat pouring down his face, and Kit gave in, letting the older children haul her away. A young man her own age caught her and whirled her away into the dance and she found herself spinning in circles amongst a group of the town youngsters, sharing sips from flasks of potent mulled wine and sticky cakes that tasted of oranges and cinnamon. The drumbeat surged through the earth beneath her heels, driven by the pounding feet of the dancers, and she threw her head back and laughed aloud in the dance of death.

 

*

 

**_[Extract from the journal of Varric Tethras, 30 Solas, 9:37 Dragon]_ **

 

_Andraste preserve us all._

_Blondie’s really done it this time. There’s no going back, not from this. Maker, the screaming – I can still hear it, even from down here on the water._

_We’re going to the Gallows. It’s not right, that they should pay for what Anders did. Too many innocents are dead already, adding the slaughter of hundreds more won’t fix anything, but Meredith is beyond reasoning._ _I don’t see how any of us will survive this, but I’ll follow where Hawke goes. He hasn’t led us wrong so far, and this is our city. I’m not prepared to sit back and watch it burn._

_So much death, on All Souls Eve of all nights._

_‘Draw your last breath, my friends_

_Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky_

_Rest at the Maker’s right hand,_

_And be forgiven.’_

 

*

 

 Eventually the old woman began to doze in the carriage and Kit returned to her side regretfully, her heart calling back to the beat of the drums.

‘I could take her back and return for you, miss.’ the carriage driver said. ‘I’ll be coming down again anyway.’

‘No, better not.’ Kit said, ceding to her better judgement. ‘I’ve an early start in the morn.’

She covered Andra with her own cloak, too flushed from the fires and dancing to neet it, and lay back on the seat opposite her to star up at the stars as they wound their way back up the cliff-face to the manor, her fingers drumming rapid in time with her pulse and the drumming that still seemed to sing in her ears. It sustained her against dragging tiredness until they reached the manor courtyard, where she woke Andra gently to help her to bed, calling for her maid to help her undress.

‘Got your map?’ she murmured around a yawn. ‘Well, I’ll see you for breakfast then. Don’t forget!’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’ Kit promised, and let the maid lead the old woman away, returning to the drawing room to catch a few hours dozing in the chair before the fire. Cara woke her as the kitchen roused to begin the days baking, the night just starting to withdraw on the distant horizon, and she slipped quietly from the house with the map tucked beneath her shirt, cloak wrapped tight around her against the early morning chill. Gaheris was visibly displeased at leaving his warm stall, but too well-trained to act up as they picked their way up the steep winding path to the top of the cliff in the dim light.

The map was finely drawn and clearly marked, and they found themselves at the lake well before the sun had broken over the eastern horizon. Kit stripped out of her cloak and tied it to the saddle, leaving Gaheris grazing in the lee of Boar’s Rock, and kicked off her boots, setting them aside so she could strip to her small things and wade out into the shallows of the lake, gasping at the chill. She felt tired and raw in the face of finally accomplishing the last task tying her to her grandmother’s memory, the hushed dawn air doing nothing to silence her busy thoughts.

With the sunrise, her last crutch would be gone, and she would be left to make her own way in the world.

She lay back in the shallows, just deep enough to be able to float beneath the surface, and closed her eyes, listening to the pounding beat of her heart echoing in the water, until Gaheris' muzzle brushed softly over her face. He nudged her back above the surface and she stroked his bowed neck, getting to her feet and wading out up the long, rocky shore to where she had left her clothes, drying herself roughly on her cloak and dressing again.

Boar’s Rock was a broad slope of granite jutting from the lakeshore, easy to scramble up and offering a panoramic view over the lake and heathland beyond. As the sun rose, seemingly from the lake itself, it created a long shining road of light in the water, stretching up to the heavens, and Kit pulled the sealed tin she had carried from Ostwick from beneath her shirt. It was warm from her skin, and she cradled it close for a long moment, eyes closed, before she got to her feet and used her belt knife to break the seal and lift the lid.

The fine grey powder lifted into the air on the dawn breeze, whisking away past her, and she threw the tin like one would a spear, straight towards the sun.

It arced high over the lake, the cloud of ash dissipating behind it in a sparkling trail, turned twice in the sunlight, and vanished beneath the surface with barely a splash.

Kit sank to her knees and wept.

 

*

 

**_[Excerpt from the reports of Knight-Captain Cullen, Kirkwall Order of Templars, de facto Knight-Commander – 1 August, 9:37 Dragon. The parchment is tattered and smoke-stained, smudged with rusty fingerprints, the handwriting shaky and trailing away towards the torn edge of the page.]_ **

_I do not know how to begin to make this right. I have failed in my duty once again. The Chantry is destroyed, half the city lies in ruins, the Circle is no more, and Grand Cleric Elthina is dead, as is Knight-Commander Meredith – or at least, incapacitated._

_Maker, I hope she is dead. For her to still live inside that thing is a fate I would wish on no-one._

_It was that cursed red lyrium in the end. Or no, perhaps I shift too much of the blame. I have no doubt that the idol brought back from the Deep Roads by Bartrand Tethras was the reason of much of Meredith’s descent into madness, but the rest of it – the paranoia, the harsh punishments, the blind eye turned to the abuse our own visited on the charges in our care – that was all of her own making._

_I look in the mirror and see the same twisted hatred stamped over my own features, and it shakes me to the core. Is this the road I walk? What I will become?_

_I am not blameless. I was too young to be made Knight-Captain, too damaged by the events at Kinloch Hold, but I am not young now. I have turned a blind eye to Meredith’s orders for too long, allowed too much to pass. I would resign my commission, but we have lost so many of the senior ranks that I fear I would leave what remains of Kirkwall in the hands of raw, traumatised recruits. No, I shall remain and do what little I can to aid the injured and survivors – a bandage over a gaping wound – until I am relieved of my post, whence I shall submit myself for judgement before the Knight-Commanders of the Order._

_I must make my confession here: I disobeyed a direct order from my Knight-Commander. I turned against her in battle, and I allowed the Champion of Kirkwall, who had aided the mages of the circle in rebellion, to walk free from the city._

_Garrett Hawke fled Kirkwall hoping to draw away the Exalted March we all fear is coming. I could not fault his reasoning, for all a voice in the back of my mind says that Kirkwall can only be fixed by being wiped off the map. Too much blood has soaked these stones to ever be wiped clean._

_But there are innocents still, and they do not deserve such a fate. The innocent never do – and yet so often they suffer it._

_Maker, hear my cry. I cannot see the road before me. Is there no end to all this pain?_

 

*

 

The sun was fully up by the time she had recovered, washed the sticky tears from her face, and tucked the map safely away inside her journal. She felt scrubbed clean, the world afresh, and leaned down to press her forehead to Gaheris’ mane as the charger made his way easily back down the cliff path to the manor. The feeling of peace, however, did not last long – the servants in the manor seemed distracted, huddled and talking to each other in corners, an ill-at-ease hush in the air. Kit left Gaheris under the care of a distracted stable-hand, frowning, and went in search of her aunt.

 Andra was seated in her drawing room again, her chair drawn up to the window, gazing out over the village with a pensive expression, a letter smoothed on her lap with shaking hands, and Kit stopped in the doorway to take the scene in cautiously, growing unease in her gut.

‘Aunt Andra?’ Kit said sharply, making her jump as if jerked sharply from deep thoughts.

‘Oh, Kit, good.’ the old woman sighed. ‘I was beginning to think you’d ridden on – is it done then?’

Kit swallowed, and nodded wordlessly. Andra held out her hands and she went to her, letting the old woman draw her down into a surprisingly firm embrace.

‘Ariel would be very proud of you.’ she murmured. ‘You may resemble me, but you have all of her spirit.’

Kit squeezed her eyes tight shut, and nodded, not trusting her voice. Andra smoothed a gnarled hand through her hair, and urged her to take the chair opposite, drawing it up close as Andra drummed her fingers pensively on the parchment laying in her lap.

‘Not long after you rode out this morning, we received word from Bergit.’ she said as Kit sank down into the seat. ‘She’s in the City for the All Souls celebrations at the castle, so heard the news first. Something terrible has happened in Kirkwall.’

‘Kirkwall?’ Kit repeated, and felt her gut twist tight. Kirkwall, just a few days ride from Ostwick, permanently on the brink of disaster. ‘What’s happened?’

‘The Chantry has been destroyed.’ Andra said quietly, handing her the letter. ‘An explosion, set by an apostate mage it seems. The Grand-Cleric is dead, along with most of her brothers and sisters, and hundreds of passers-by have been killed by falling rubble. The Knight-Commander ordered the Rite of Annulment against the Circle of Magi.’

Kit jerked in horror in her seat. ‘But – if it was an apostate, then why - ’

‘From what I have heard of Knight-Commander Meredith, the answer may simply be ‘because’.’ Andra said, shaking her head, her hands twisting in her lap. ‘Since the death of Viscount Dumar, she has held that city by a noose, and the reports speak of her paranoia edging into insanity. The Champion, Hawke, chose to aid the mages, and the Circle rebelled. It seems any who survived have fled the city.’

‘They’ll be tracked.’ Kit said, numb. ‘If the Circle wasn’t caught in the explosion, the Templars will have their phylacteries. Kirkwall Templars are notorious – they’ll ignore all the suffering at their feet to track down the mages and put them to the sword, regardless of their innocence or guilt.’

‘The ripples of this will spread far.’ Andra murmured, gazing down towards the town. ‘Precisely what Thedas doesn’t need in the wake of a Blight. Fereldan, Orlais, the Free Marches, the Imperium – they all exist in a careful balance of mutually assured destruction, where one cannot move on the other without leaving themselves vulnerable to attack from a different quarter. This is a thrown rock at a house of cards.’

‘I must write to Amaris.’ Kit said, her mind racing. ‘If they’re targeting Chantry buildings - ’

‘Yes, of course.’ Andra said, and gestured to a writing desk in the corner. ‘There is ink and parchment there, I will have it sent by bird to Ostwick.’

‘May I tell her to send any letters here?’ Kit asked, crossing to the desk and rummaging for clean parchment and a sharpened quill. ‘I don’t know where the Draufgänger will go next, and I’m wary of letting anyone in Ostwick know where I am in case word reaches father.’

‘Yes, of course – have them send letters here and write to me when you stop for a few days, I will send them on to you.’ Andra said, a twinkle of life returning to her haunted eyes. ‘Bergit and I can more than handle your father if he should complain – stuffed-up windbag.’

 

*

 

**[A weather-stained letter to Amaris Trevelyan, received at the Ostwick Chantry 4 August, 9:37 Dragon]**

 

_Amaris_

_I heard the news about Kirkwall. I was at our Great-Aunt’s estate in Nevarra, by the time you get this I’ll have moved on. Aunt Andra is sending it by bird, so I hope it doesn’t take long._

_Maker I hope you’re alright. Send any letters for me to Great Aunt Andra, she’s promised to hold them until I know where we’re going next and write for them._

_The news has spread fast, it’s all anyone can talk about. There’s a lot of unease in the air, even this far away in Nevarra. After all - if one Circle can rebel and succeed, why not the others? I can’t say I blame them, though – if what I’m hearing is true, they were less rebels and more innocents trying to defend themselves from slaughter. The Knight-Commander had no right to call the Rite of Annulment without proof any of them had been involved. Maker, it was the biggest Circle in the Marches, so many of them must have been little more than children._

_Everyone always said Kirkwall was a powder keg waiting for a struck match, but I don’t think they meant it quite so literally._

_Be careful, Amaris. Ostwick is too close to all this for comfort, for all we’ve always managed to steer clear of Kirkwall’s madness. I worry for the safety of the entire Chantry – let’s hope this ‘Anders’ hasn’t given any of his fellow apostates any ideas._

_I’ll write again soon. If you have need of me, write to Great Aunt Andra and I will come._

_Yours,_

_Kit._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem: ‘The Road Not Taken’ by Robert Frost.
> 
> ‘I shall be telling with a sigh/somewhere ages and ages hence/Two roads diverged in a wood, and I/I took the one less travelled by/And that has made all the difference.’
> 
> One of Robert Frost’s better known poems, and one of my personal favourites. The idea of choice is central to my understanding of Kit as a character – through her parents she has the choice of the smooth, but very constrained path they have laid out for her, through her grandmother she has seen a glimpse of a shadowy, unknown path, less travelled, most certainly less safe – and far, far more exciting. I also liked the last line ‘and that has made all the difference’ – the idea that by challenging yourself, taking yourself out the comfortable, well-worn path, you grow in a positive way (something Kit is sorely in need of). It could also apply to many of the other characters – Cassandra, Dorian, even Cullen. The group that comes to make up the inner workings of the Inquisition are by all accounts, a bloody odd bunch. They’ve all taken ‘the road less travelled by’ to greater or lesser extent.
> 
>  
> 
> All Souls Day:  
> The Thedosian calendar puts ‘All Souls Day’ as the first of Matrinalis/August – as far as I can tell, this coincides with the real world holiday of ‘All Hallows’. We know now this as ‘Hallow’een’ or ‘All Hallows Eve’ – the night of October 31st, with the 1st of November being the actual ‘day of Hallows’. I figured that in Nevarra, with their very unique way of handling their dead, attitudes to the day outside the Chantry were likely to be less solemn and more festive, honouring your departed ancestors – not unlike the Mexican ‘Day of the Dead’. I didn’t want to appropriate a real world holiday from Mexico to a Thedosian fictional holiday for a country I’ve been equating more with Germanic Prussia, however, so I steered towards a combination of pagan and modern western tradition. I drew heavily on the medieval concept of the ‘Danse Macabre’ that was partially born out of the great social leveller that was the Black Death in the 14th century – the idea that all of us, eventually, return to dust, from the highest to the lowest of society. This appeared in medieval art depicting Death summoning people to dance to the grave, typically consisting of a pope, emperor, king, child and labourer. The children in the Nevarran village attached to Kit’s Great-Aunt’s estate are demonstrating this, dressed as themselves, nobles, mages, Templars and the Divine among others.
> 
> Butterfly masks – In Christianity and in many cultures around the world, the butterfly has come to represent the soul, death and resurrection. Kit and Andra are essentially dressed up as souls of the departed.
> 
> Draufgänger – A german word, literal translation would be ‘daredevils’. Probably given to them by Sascha during a stream of furious Nevarran muttered under her breath as she surveyed her pack patching themselves up after yet another madcap adventure. Kit has no idea what she’s let herself in for joining this lot.
> 
> *
> 
> HO BOY this is shaping up to be an epic. Chapter wordcount, discounting notes: 9482.
> 
> Comments, criticism, all lovely and very welcomed. My writing skills are rusty.  
> And to the three people that left kudos on my tiny prologue – aw, thank you!


	3. We Are The Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of Thedas is reeling from the repercussions of the Kirkwall rebellion, and it's easy for the stories of the little people to be lost to history.

Cullen walked the streets of Kirkwall in a daze.

The air was thick and choking with smoke, ash, and worse. The morning sun had risen through a ruddy haze of destruction that hung in a thick pall over what remained of the stricken city – and the dawn had brought no respite from the shrieks and groans of the grieving and injured. Around him people stumbled from ruin to ruin, dragging out what little they could salvage.

‘Ser – Knight-Commander - ’

He focused, slowly, dragging his gaze back from somewhere far away, to find Ser Hallan standing before him, dishevelled and missing half his armour. His eyes were reddened – by the smoke, by the tears still staining his cheeks – and his hands shook convulsively even as he reached out to steady Cullen.

‘Ser, you need to rest – you’ve been out here all night, and you’re injured - ’

_Rest?_

‘I will rest later.’ Cullen croaked, dragging his clouded thoughts into some semblance of order with extreme difficulty. ‘We must do what we can to aid these people.’

‘But ser, the mages, they’re getting away - ’

‘Forget the mages!’

Ser Hallan jerked back, stunned, and Cullen gritted his teeth, searching for control.

‘Look around you, Hallan.’ he said, more gently. ‘We would do the Maker poor service to leave his children suffering while we hunt what handful survived Meredith’s madness. Many of them have never lived outside the Circle, they will not get far – and there has been more than enough death already.’

He drew himself painfully straight, becoming slowly aware of his aching muscles, the sharp stab of pain in his side that spoke of damaged ribs, blood in his teeth and a sharp, tugging pain slashed up the right corner of his lip. His hands ached and stung, and as he lifted one to rub the blood from his mouth he found himself arrested by the sight of it, bare of his gauntlets and covered in stone-dust and filth, the pale skin scratched and scraped away in bloody patches. The other was no better – but he had been digging, hadn’t he, trance-like through the rubble as a mother screamed and tore her own hands bloody trying to lift the chunk of ornately carved masonry which had levelled the small house in which her two children slept.

‘What should we do, Ser?’ Hallan whispered, and Cullen breathed in, once, twice, resolutely turned his mind from what, precisely he was breathing in alongside ash and dust, what an explosion of that magnitude could reduce a body to, and gave his orders.

‘Summon all Templars to the Keep. I must speak with what is left of the City Guard, by the time they are assembled I will have orders for them.’

 

He turned without waiting for a response and forged his way up towards the Keep with dogged, single-minded purpose, all thought processes shut down and narrowed to the act of putting one foot before the other, navigating the paths blocked by masonry and corpses. In this fashion he moved across the city without lifting his gaze from the ground, and nearly fell flat on his face tripping on the first of the stone steps leading up to the Keep.

‘Easy, Knight-Captain.’ said a rough voice, a strong hand catching him under the upper arm. He blinked, world reasserting itself, and twisted to find a faintly familiar guardsman holding him upright, looking just as awful as the rest of them.

‘Hendyr.’ he said after a long moment searching his mental files. ‘But Aveline - ’

‘She’s up there, trying to co-ordinate some kind of rescue effort.’ Donnic said, and let him go once he’d reassured himself Cullen wouldn’t immediately pitch over without the support. ‘She told me everything. We’re staying – we have a duty to fulfil.’

Cullen swallowed as sharp, surprising relief welled up in his throat, near-choking.

‘Glad to hear it.’ he said roughly, and eyed the long, steep stairs to the Keep.

‘One at a time.’ Donnic said low. ‘Come on.’

 

It took a shamefully long time, and Cullen’s vision was grey and narrow when they reached the top, ribs shrieking a cacophony of pain as he sucked in thin, shallow breaths through his nose. Donnic hovered watchfully at his side, but didn’t move to help him until they reached the top and he was able to steer Cullen into the long hallway beyond, blessedly cool and quiet, mostly free of the choking dust. Perched up high, the Keep had escaped the worst of the rubble, tucked inside the calmer epicentre of the explosion as the chunks were thrown up and outwards, raining instead on the inhabitants of benighted, miserable Lowtown – and wasn’t that just the icing on the cake, Cullen thought sourly to himself as he braced himself against the wall and fought to breathe through the pain.

He straightened after several minutes to find Donnic leaning back against the opposite wall, his head tipped back against the stone, eyes fallen almost closed as though snatching a few moments of sleep – but when Cullen moved he did too, pushing off the wall and leading him along the corridor to the Viscount’s throne room. The chair remained empty, Dumar’s polished circlet resting on the black-shrouded seat, and Cullen stared bitterly at it for a long moment before his gaze fell on the heavy desk that had been dragged to the bottom of the steps to the throne, a familiar, red-headed woman standing behind it, her hands braced against the battered wood, as she examined an unfurled map of Kirkwall, a rough stick of charcoal on her hand with which she marked certain spots in response to the rattling, clipped report of a shell-shocked scout.

‘Captain.’ Donnic said as the scout finished, saluting, and his wife looked up, her red-rimmed, fierce gaze landing on Cullen. ‘The Knight-Captain is here to see you.’

‘Dismissed.’ Aveline said to the scout, who left on shaky knees and closed the doors behind him. She and Cullen regarded each other for a long, silent moment.

‘We need to pool resources.’ Cullen said, impatience forcing him to cut around the fact that the last time they’d seen each other had been a scarce six hours or so previous, in the stricken courtyard of the Gallows as the statue which had once been his commander smoked gently and he let Hawke and his merry gang walk free.

Aveline’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded, sharp.

‘You’re in charge then? Good. I’ve scouts building me a picture of the worst hit areas’ – she gestured to the map – ‘but I don’t have enough guards fit to do much to help, and those who escaped the explosion unhurt have been on their feet since it happened.’

‘We’ll do no one any good if we can’t sustain it.’ Cullen said, brain beginning to click sluggishly into action. ‘We need to establish a rota, everyone gets at least some rest while still allowing rescue efforts to go round the clock – at least until aid arrives.’

‘If aid arrives.’ Aveline said quietly, then shook herself, grim lines tightening around her mouth. ‘No, it will.’

‘I will send word to the Orders in the other Marcher cities.’ Cullen said. ‘They at least should send Templars.’

‘Are more Templars a good idea?’ Aveline said bluntly. ‘Will they focus on what needs to be done, or on hunting down mages who have done nothing but protect themselves from Meredith’s madness?’

‘They will if they know what’s good for them.’ Cullen snapped, and took a deep breath, reigning it in. ‘I’ve summoned what remains of the Order here to be allocated tasks. We need a plan before they get here.’

‘If I may?’ Donnic said diffidently. ‘Pair them up roughly – a Templar to a Guard or two – and send them out in groups. Split our total forces into three shifts, keep one third back to snatch a few hours sleep  now, swap them out with another third and then again – one third resting, two thirds working. That way we’ll be able to sustain until help arrives, and we...shouldn’t have the other problem we were worrying about.’

He looked at Aveline, who grimaced faintly, and met Cullen’s gaze.

‘There are mages out in the city.’ she said. ‘Some apostates, some who fled the fighting at the Circle. They’ve stayed to heal the injured, move rubble that muscle alone can’t lift, put out the fires – and I’ve already had reports of one nearly killed by Templars while they were performing healing magic and vulnerable to attack. They almost certainly won’t be the only one.’

Cullen ground the heel of his hand into his eyes and let loose a blistering riposte of curses that left Aveline arching a brow at him and Donnic looking faintly impressed.

‘I will deal with it.’ he said savagely. ‘If you have the names of those involved, bring them to me. Otherwise, I see no flaws to your suggestion, Guardsman.’

A wary knock came from the door and Donnic strode to answer it to reveal a huddled knot of nervous looking Templars in varying states of armour and health. Cullen barked at them to form up as more trickled in, until they stood in ordered ranks.

‘Excuse me.’ he said to Aveline, who stepped back with a mocking flourish of her hand. He ignored the barb, and climbed two steps up the stairs to the viscount’s empty throne to stand head and shoulders above his brethren.

‘Attention!’

They snapped upright, even those who looked seconds away from keeling over, and Cullen marshalled his thoughts swiftly into order.

‘Knight-Commander Meredith is dead.’ he said. ‘The Circle has fallen, and the Chantry is destroyed. As Knight-Captain, I inherit her role. Does anyone contest this right?’

Silence echoed through the Keep.

‘Very well.’ Cullen said, swallowing hard against the dryness of his throat. His tongue seemed coated in ash and blood, and he could scarcely imagine how frightful he must have looked, face torn open, covered head-to-toe in dust and worse, barely able to stand upright. ‘I order the Rite of Annulment revoked. There shall be _no more death_. Is that understood?

A murmur of cautious assent rippled through the ranks and he raised an eyebrow, cupping one hand behind his ear. The shout that answered was a great deal more enthusiastic the second time around.

‘I am aware that there are mages in the city helping the relief efforts.’ Cullen said. ‘You will not harm them, you will not hinder them – you will offer them assistance and protection. ‘Magic exists to serve man’ – the people of Kirkwall are in dire need of service, and these magi have remained to do so, at great risk to themselves. I will personally deal with any Knight reported to have harassed or harmed them.’

He waited a moment for the words to sink in, picking out the faces that scowled or flinched and committing them to memory, then divided those present into three shifts based on visible exhaustion and injury. The first he sent to rest and find what treatment he could, the second and third he turned over to Donnic to be matched up with the assembled Guardsmen, then dismissed them, watching out of the corner of his eyes as Hallan and three other knights huddled in a corner, each of them shooting black looks in his direction.

‘Trouble?’ Aveline murmured without lifting her gaze from the map.

‘Always.’ he sighed, and raised his voice. ‘Ser Hallan!’

The Knight jumped visibly, his hand flying back beneath his gambeson to hid whatever he had been about to pass to his brother-in-arms. Cullen held out his hand, palm up, and waited.

Hallan dropped the key reluctantly into his hand.

‘The key to the phylactery store.’ Cullen said, turning it over in his hand. ‘Tell me, Ser Hallan, how did a junior knight come by such a thing?’

Hallan squirmed visibly.

‘Ser Timon gave it to me, Knight-Cap...Knight-Commander.’ he muttered, scowling at his boots. ‘He said to fetch any that were still glowing for him.’

‘I see.’ Cullen said. ‘Ser Timon, who I notice, has not responded to the summons. I assume you know where he is?’

‘I was to catch them up.’ Hallan said. ‘Don’t know how far they’ve got Ser.’

‘Pardon me for interrupting.’ Aveline said, frowning. ‘But are you telling me that some of the Knights are haring off on a wild goose chase after fleeing mages?’

‘It would appear so.’ Cullen said grimly. ‘Guard-Captain, kindly take this man into your custody for the moment? I would have him escorted to the cells beneath the Gallows, but it seems a waste of precious time.’

‘What?’ Hallan cried as he was set upon by two guards at a nod from Aveline. ‘But Ser!’

‘Don’t Ser me, Hallan.’ Cullen snarled, rounding on the chastened knight. ‘You disobeyed a direct order from your Commander, and aided fugitives.’

‘I never aided no robes, Ser!’ Hallan protested, panicking. ‘I was helping Ser Timon!’

‘A fugitive _templar_.’ Cullen roared. ‘Who has left Kirkwall stricken to go against my orders and pursue a far lesser concern! What do you suppose he will do to these magi when he finds them, Hallan? Offer them protection?’

‘He said he was going to finish what Commander Meredith started.’ Hallan whispered, two hectic spots of colour burning on his cheeks. ‘But that’s _right_ Ser, they caused all this!’

‘One man caused all this, and he is _already dead._ ’ Cullen hissed, leaning in to force Hallan to meet his gaze, fury tightening every sinew in him to breaking point. ‘You will go to the cells Hallan, you will pray for guidance, and you will tell me where Timon and his cabal are headed.’

He jerked a head at the Guards and they carted the shell-shocked Hallan away as Cullen tucked the key firmly inside his belt.

‘I must go and secure the phylacteries.’ he said low. ‘I would not leave them in the hands of those who believe Meredith had the right of it.’

‘Go.’ Aveline said. ‘ Rest and return for the next shift, I will stay for this one, Donnic and Lorna will take the two after me respectively. Choose two of your own who you can trust and assign them. And for the Maker’s sake, see a healer before your face splits in completely in two.’

Cullen gave her what he was sure was a ghastly grimace, and turned away, bracing himself for the journey back through the stricken city.

 

*

 

**_[A travel-stained letter from Amaris Trevelyan, dated 29 Harvestmere, 9:37 Dragon]_ **

_Kit,_

_I have no idea when this will reach you, but hopefully Great-Aunt Andra has a better idea of where you are right now than I do. I understand why you won’t tell me - you’ve always known how I’ve felt about lying to father - but increasingly I’d rather know and lie than spend my scant spare minutes worrying about whether or not you’re in the thick of whatever latest trouble we hear of._

_Ostwick has been inundated with refugees fleeing what remains of Kirkwall. They shut the city gates, and there’s been fighting in the hills – apostate mages, they say, rebels and runaways pursued by Templars. The new Knight-Commander in Kirkwall revoked the Rite of Annulment, but some of them have disobeyed him and left the city to hunt them down. They’re putting any mage they come across to the sword, regardless of guilt or innocence – judge, jury and executioner in one. I can’t say I blame the mages for fighting back – but it seems like this rebellion is spreading to the other Circles, and that worries me. What happens if they fall?  The stories coming out of Kirkwall are horrific – just last week I treated a mage refugee who had survived the Rite of Annulment and fled to the Ostwick circle for sanctuary. Under Meredith’s regime, she’d smuggled bread to two starving apprentices who’d been falsely accused of stealing from the kitchens (it turned out it had been a group of Templar initiates). When she was caught, they left her in the stocks for four days and whipped her bloody. Her back was more scar than flesh. But surely all the Circles can’t be so terrible?_

_Maker, I pray we have not all been complicit in an atrocity beneath our noses._

_The fighting is spreading, with Kirkwall at its centre – they say there is unrest in Ferelden now, and stirrings in the White Spire at Val Royeaux. I do not know what is to become of us, and while you may worry for my safety in the Chantry here, it frightens me far more to think of you roaming the lands. Stay safe, Kit, please. And for the love of Andraste, would you write to Gavriel already? He’s been riding into town near every day to pester me for word of you, and I have my hands full giving what aid and comfort I can to the pilgrims who arrive with nothing more than the clothes on their back. Father’s not going to be able to track you down from one letter._

_Maker watch over you,_

_*_

 

Kit stuttered awake in the darkness, with gasping, shuddering breaths, bile burning in the back of her throat. Hands grabbed her, pushing back onto something warm and soft, muttered cursing ringing through the air, and several soft balls of glowing mage-fire swirled into being above her head, casting the faces around her into sharp relief.

‘Easy, pup.’ a familiar, accented voice soothed from behind her, thickened with sleep. ‘Easy. Lie back now, let Axel work.’

She eased back with a groan of pain, gazing around in utter bewilderment as the Nevarran apostate went to work, muttering under his breath in his native tongue.

‘What happened?’ she croaked, and felt Sascha stroke her hair back from her forehead, damp and matted with sweat, her touch gentle even while her voice grew stern.

‘You spent too long in the camps _, meine kleine Löwe._ Caught the sickness. If it hadn’t been for Axel...’

‘You’re lucky I’ve treated this before.’ Axel said, worry making his voice harsh. ‘And that Sascha spotted it quickly. Idiot Marcher.’

‘Nagging Nevarran.’ Kit muttered, but her heart wasn’t in it. She felt like a wrung out rag, the effort it had taken to lift her head enough to make out their surroundings leaving her so exhausted it was difficult to keep her eyes open.

‘Stay awake a little longer.’ Sascha murmured, and eased her up to sit propped against the bales of hay they seemed to have nested in, the rest of the Draufgänger gathered at the far end of the hayloft, most of them fast asleep. Stein rolled over and cracked open one eye, giving her a solemn nod before falling asleep again, little Em curled against his massive bulk and watching them with large dark eyes. The tiny Dalish boy they had found abandoned in a patch of embrium some weeks previously  had begun to emerge from his shell, still most at ease around the solid, looming presence of Stein, who hovered in a fashion not unlike a mama bear. Kit managed what she was sure was a ghastly smile, and he burrowed down into the hay until only his mop of dark curls and one delicately pointed ear was visible.

Sascha returned to her side with a bowl of steaming broth, which Axel withheld until Kit had choked down a vile-tasting potion from his pack, then began to spoon-feed her, dark eyes stern.

‘Rest, Axel.’ she said. ‘I’ve got her.’

Axel stood, crouching awkwardly in the low-ceilinged loft and glared down at her, dark smudges visible beneath his eyes.

‘If I catch you taking risks like that again I’ll choke you myself.’ he growled.

‘No deal.’ Kit muttered, and submitted to being fed with ill grace as Axel stomped off to his bedroll, swearing. Em poked his head out of the hay, and Kit waggled her fingers reassuringly at him until the small boy retreated once more, eyes slipping closed.

‘Still no sign of his clan?’ she said in an undertone.

‘No.’ Sascha sighed, setting aside the empty bowl and easing her down to curl among the piled blankets. ‘And he still won’t talk.’

‘Do we know if he even speaks the same language as us? Some Dalish clans speak elven as their first language, don’t learn anything else until they’re older.’

‘No idea.’ Sascha shrugged philosophically. ‘He seems to understand us well enough.’

Kit’s train of thought was thoroughly broken by a violent fit of coughing that left her reeling, vision hazy and dim as her beleaguered lungs strained for air. Sascha held her through it, hauling her into an upright position against her shoulder in an attempt to open her throat up, and Kit clutched at her with weak fingers.

‘Ugh.’ she croaked after it had passed. ‘Where are we anyway? How long was I out?’

‘What do you remember?’

‘Leaving Tantervale.’ Kit said. ‘Feeling like crap.’

Sascha swore under her breath and pulled the blankets up higher. ‘That was over a week ago. Your fever was worse than I thought.’

‘A week?!’

‘Shhh, don’t wake the others. We’re in a small town just outside Starkhaven. The Chantry mother arranged with this farmer to let us use his hayloft in exchange for some work we did for her.’

She sighed, looking as exhausted as the rest of them. ‘So much need, everywhere. Children abandoned, families destroyed...it is grim outside these walls, _meine_ _Löwe.’_

‘Feels pretty grim inside them.’ Kit croaked with a poor attempt at humour, and didn’t try to duck the gentle swat Sascha aimed at her head. turning instead to burrow into the older woman’s neck piteously. She allowed it, easing them both down among the blankets.

‘Wait, should you be so close to me?’ Kit asked drowsily. ‘What if you catch it?’

‘We’ve all been dosing ourselves with one of Axel’s preventatives.’ she soothed. ‘If we were going to catch it, we would have. Now your fever has broken, you shouldn’t be infectious.’

She pushed Kit’s hair back from her brow, fond and a little sad. ‘You won’t be of help to anyone dead in a ditch from a refugee sickness. You must take better care of yourself.’

‘They were starving.’ Kit said, low. ‘I can hunt.’

Sascha sighed, and pushed her down flat in the straw. ‘Like hitting my head against stone wall. Crack.’

‘Rude.’ Kit muttered, but succumbed to the drugging pull of a deep, healing sleep, Sascha’s body a warm, familiar comfort against hers.

 

*

**[Excerpt from the travel journal of Kit Trevelyan, dated 10 Firstfall, 9:37 Dragon]**

_Winter is here and people are dying._

_The harvest was poor this year throughout the Marches, destroyed by the ongoing fighting between Templars and Mages, abandoned as farmers fled the war. We’ve heard reports of unrest in Ferelden as well, many are taking ship across the Waking Sea again. Ferelden may be free of the blight, but an all out Mage-Templar war and boatloads of refugees is all they need right now._

_Everyone is freezing, starving, and afraid, and nothing seems to be being done._

_We’re helping where we can. Axel and I have perfected ways of combining his magic and my bow and traps to draw in prey for the refugee camps we find, but there are so many needy and so few of us – and the camps are riddled with sickness, as I discovered late last month. I don’t remember anything after leaving Tantervale; apparently we got halfway down the road, Gaheris stopped dead, and I fell off. Lies, I’m sure of it. A Trevelyan never falls off._

_We’re staying here in Starkhaven a few more days for the worst of this storm to pass and Sascha to find us whatever work she can, then we’ll be off again. I’m under orders to rest still, but I feel fine – my muscles are atrophying from lying in this hay. Unfortunately Axel has discovered that our little foundling Dalish boy is keen to be useful, and set him as my guard dog – when I tried to climb down the ladder earlier he fastened himself around my ankles like a limpet until I was too exhausted from dragging him in circles to do anything._

_He’s a sweet child, our little Embrium, but we all worry about him. A mostly-human mercenary group is no place to raise a Dalish elf, he needs to be with his own people. We can’t teach him about his history or his Creators, and once he’s old enough he’ll have questions we won’t be able to answer._

_Still, in the absence of any Dalish clans apparently anywhere, better he’s safe with us than alone or in the hands of the more unscrupulous. Tevinter slavers have been pressing their luck further and further in land, using the unrest as an opportunity. The thought of little Em in their hands...no. Much better he stays with us for now. Stein would take a sword through the heart before he let harm come to him, though they make for the oddest pair I’ve ever seen._

_*_

 

Kit rode silently, lost in her own thoughts, her thick winter cloak swathed around both herself and little Embrium, who sat curled in the saddle before her, clinging to the pommel with one small hand, her arms locked tight around his waist as he dozed, cold nose tucked into her neck. His place in the wagon had been displaced by their cargo of mystery crates, much to Stein’s displeasure, but the small child had settled astride Gaheris without complaint. Around them the rest of the Draufgänger were muffled up much the same, heads bowed against the fiercely biting wind, and she was so lost in her own thoughts that she barely noticed when Sascha called for a halt on the edge of a dense patch of forest which would give them shelter for the night.

Em stirred when she brought Gaheris to a halt in the small clearing, the wind eased by the tall trunks around them, and stretched in the saddle, his dark eyes heavy with sleep as he looked around, then stiffened in her grip.

‘Em?’ Kit asked softly, and groped for her practically non-existent elvish vocabulary. _‘Iras ma ghilas, da’len?’_

He sprang from her loose grasp like a landed fish, dropping to the snow on bare feet and sprinting into the trees, the hood of his cloak falling back with the flight of his passage.

‘Em!’ Kit shouted, and gave chase, throwing herself from the saddle to follow him into the denser trees where Gaheris couldn’t follow. He was a swift and silent shadow ahead of her, vanishing between dark trunks, and her still-recovering body protested strenuously at the sudden burst of effort, lungs burning in the knife-cold air, heartbeat thundering in her ears and all but drowning out the shouts of the Draufgänger left behind in her madcap rush into the trees.

Embrium came to a halt so sharply she was forced to dodge awkwardly to the side, stumbling over a fallen sapling and stepping down hard on something that gave under her foot, landing her on her ass in the drifts, her hood falling around her shoulders. The snow soaked swiftly through her nugskin breeches, biting into her hands despite the woollen gloves she wore, but the discomfort seemed oddly distant in the face of the sight before her.

Snowflakes danced on her long, horrified exhale, and she lowered her gaze to find the corpse she had trodden on had rolled under her weight, limbs akimbo, eyes glazed milky in death as they stared at her accusingly. A great blow had rent the young elf from throat to crotch, innards spilling black and frozen on the white, white ground.

‘Em.’ Kit said hoarsely, fighting back her rising gorge, and scrambled back, finding her feet as she lunged for the child, gathering him to her chest and drawing up his hood, instinctively shielding him from the horror of the silent grove. ‘Don’t look, _da’len,_ close your eyes.’

He shuddered against her, hands wound into her shirt, and she lifted him awkwardly to cling against her as he began to cry, thin high wails that rent her heart.

 

‘ _Mamae_.’ he sobbed, keening like a lost wild thing, and Kit held him tighter, helpless.

 

A crashing through the trees alerted her and she snatched a blade from her back with a free hand, twisting awkwardly to shield Em from whatever approached – only for Stein to come barrelling through on the other side of the clearing, snow caught in his bristling dark hair.

 

‘Stop!’ Kit shouted, and he skidded to a halt inches away from the destroyed wagons and slaughtered halla, axe dropping from his nerveless fingers.

 

‘ _Maker_.’ Sascha breathed from behind her, and she felt her hand on her shoulder, drawing her to stumble back and lean heavily against the older woman, Em cradled safely between them as he continued to grieve.

 

‘He called for his mother.’ Kit rasped through a throat clasped tight with rage. ‘ _Mamae_.’

 

‘You think these were his – Andraste, no.’ Sascha whispered, and bent low over the boy cradled in Kit’s arms to press her lips into his dark, curling hair. Kit shuddered involuntarily, her soaked clothes freezing against her numb skin, and Sascha snapped orders to the rest of the stunned group even as Axel appeared at their side, his mouth a thin, hard line, and led Kit away, supporting her when she stumbled. Em refused to be put down, his damp face pressed into the skin of her throat, inconsolable.

 In their half-built campsite, the apostate put up her tent silently while she paced in an attempt to stave off the numbing cold, swaying instinctively in a vague attempt to soothe the child until she could ease him down into her hastily unpacked bedroll and move aside for Axel to coax a draught down his throat. He slipped into a restless, shallow sleep, tears sticky on his eyelashes and pale cheeks.

‘Stay with him.’ Kit said, quiet. ‘I’ll leave Gaheris saddled outside the tent, if you hear anything you take Em and run. I’ll send a couple of the others back to stand guard and get the camp set up.’

Axel frowned at her, reaching for his staff. ‘I’ll be of more use healing any survivors - ’

‘There weren’t any.’ Kit interrupted, harsh, and grasped his shoulders. ‘Axel, it was Templars. _Templars_ did this. They could still be nearby and you are an apostate mage.’

He swayed on the spot, gaze fixed on her.

‘...Are you sure?’

‘I know what a broadsword wound looks like.’ Kit murmured. ‘I was going to train with one, once, before I began with the dragon-slayers. But more than that – there were two Templar dead among the wreckage. The clan fought. It wasn’t enough.’

She gestured to Em. ‘Stay with him. I’ll send guards back.’

She left without looking back, shedding her cloak for freedom of movement and loosening her blades in their sheaths as she drew Gaheris over to the tent and bid him stay with a word whispered into one pricked-ear. He shifted his weight onto one cocked foot, dark eyes watchful, and Kit hurried to retrace her steps back to the site of the slaughter. It wasn’t difficult to find.

Sascha looked up from grim work of putting several wounded halla out of their misery and drew her to one side, expression closed as she searched Kit’s face.

‘I’m fine.’ Kit snapped. Sascha said nothing, but nodded slowly, and sent three of their number to set up their camp and guard Axel and Embrium.

‘The tracks are old.’ she said. ‘Covered with snow – I think it has been at least two days. But better safe than sorry.’

Kit gazed around at the fallen bodies, gaze falling grimly on the two templar knights she had seen earlier, their corpses riddled with Dalish arrows.

‘I was going to build a pyre.’ Sascha said. ‘I don’t know how the Dalish honour their dead, but I do not wish to do nothing.’

‘Use the wagons – aravels. Use the aravels.’ Kit said, hoarse. ‘Clear them out of anything that might be useful or precious and we can keep it for Em.’

Sascha nodded, and Kit jerked her thumb at the two templars. ‘I’ll deal with them.’

She dragged them away from the rest of the camp, from the slaughter they had visited on unsuspecting victims, and rolled them onto their backs, grimly thankful for the cold which had slowed the decay of their bodies. Their faces were slack, eyes filmy behind the shadowed guards of their helmets, and she felt the weight of their dead stares as she cleaned out their pockets of coin and valuables to add to the pile for Em, took their knives and stuck them in her own boots. Their swords, she left – a Templar’s sword was distinctive to its owner, each one unique, and therefore nigh unsellable – and sat back on her heels as she considered what to do with the bodies. Affording them the same respect as their Dalish victims seemed downright crass, but the Andrastian in her shied away from the idea of leaving any body unburned and exposed for the carrion to claim. She bowed her head to pray for guidance, mulling the question over in her mind as the snow seeped through the knees of her already sodden breeches.

It was as she lifted her gaze from this meditation that the falling flakes seemed to part and dance, whirling past her into the form of a ghostly white halla picking its way delicately between the trees. It stopped and regarded her with dark, intelligent eyes, and Kit stayed frozen, breath arrested in her throat.

The halla dipped its slender head in a graceful bow, and turned to reveal the slumped figure of an elf astride its shoulders, the fur of its flank dyed crimson beneath her. Kit sprang to her side, heedless of the vicious, bloodied horns the halla was clearly capable of wielding to devastating effect, and the elf slid easily into her arms, light as a child despite her adult features. She was as a white as the forest around them, near bloodless, her Dalish tunic too thin to provide much in the way of warmth, arms and legs bare beneath it. Her long, white-blonde hair drifted finely in the breeze, and Kit shifted her arms to hold her close, feeling as if she held an insubstantial ghost in her arms, a soul arrested on its passage beyond the veil.

She stirred, breathed, snowflakes dancing on her lips, and Kit abandoned the dead without thought, wading through the drifs, her voice cracking in her throat as she shouted for help. In her arms the elf cried out, and Kit held her tighter, desperate.

‘Hold on.’ she whispered, lips pressed against the chilled temple resting on her shoulder. ‘Hold on, I’ll get help. _Halani_. SASCHA! STEIN!’

She staggered into the destroyed Dalish camp to shouts from the other Draufgänger, and Sascha appeared in a flash of dark hair, lifting the elf from her arms with aching gentleness.

‘She’s hurt.’ Kit croaked, her much-abused lungs finally having had enough and rebelling, the icy air making her choke and hack as she fought to be understood. ‘Axel - ’

‘Shh, I have her.’ Sascha murmured, pressing her forehead to Kit’s. ‘Breathe, pup. Stein! Help her!’

She sped away into the trees with the elf cradled close to her chest, and Kit staggered, only to be steadied by something warm and soft. She blinked, looked down, to find the snow-white halla had followed her, silent as a spirit, and now used its warm bulk to shore her up, dark eyes watching her intently.

‘You have made a friend.’ Stein rumbled beside her, and lifted her off her feet before she could protest. ‘But I shall not ask him to carry you. Put your arm around my neck.’

‘I’m fine, I need to - ’

‘Rest.’ Stein interrupted, stern as he trudged back to their own camp, leaving the rest of the Draufgänger to their grim task. ‘Before Axel has three patients, _ja_?’

He set her carefully down at the mouth of her own tent and urged her inside, where Embrium still slept. ‘You must put on dry things. Where is pack?’

‘Here – I need to unsaddle Gaheris, and those Templars are still lying there – and the halla, I think he was hurt- ’

Stein cut her off with a grim look and an upraised hand, pointing at her pack. ‘Change. I go, I come back.’

He tugged the tent flap shut behind him and left her to change in the light of the small lantern burning with magefyre, fighting not to cough and wake Embrium as she struggled into dry breeches and a thick shirt, tugging a blanket round her shoulders and warming her numb hands at the lantern. Em stirred in his sleep and she tucked the blankets around him, stroking his curls back from the delicate point of his ear, dark lashes a sooty sweep on his flushed cheek.

‘Shh, da’len.’ she murmured. ‘Sleep.’

He sighed, but sank deeper into sleep, still held under by Axel’s draught.

Stein returned before she could leave the tent, carrying a battered tin cup steaming with fragrant, herbal tea, and a hunk of day-old bread torn in half and packed with cheese and dried meat to make a passable sandwich.

‘You eat, you drink, you rest for half-hour.’ he said. ‘Then help around camp. Kapitan’s orders. Demon horse is fine.’

‘He’s not a demon.’ Kit sighed, but submitted with ill-grace to draining the cup of tea he thrust into her hands. ‘Stein, the two templars.’

‘I will see to.’ he interrupted, and bent over Embrium to sweep his hair back and murmur something in Nevarran, huge hands deft and gentle. He left, and the tent became a silent sanctuary amongst the snow and encroaching darkness, Em’s soft breathing the only sound. Kit sipped her tea with her eyes closed, feeling the heat sink into her chest and loosen the vice the cold seemed to have wrapped around her fever-weakened lungs, elfroot bitter on her tongue. It scented the air of the tent, and she was glad again for having shorn the heavy curtain of her hair before she left Ostwick – nothing carried the stench of ash and death in quite the same way.

She was able to eat half the sandwich, chewing mechanically and counting the weave of the tent walls, until the sight of the elf she had tripped over, belly gaping onto the snow, flashed before her eyes and she was unable to swallow another bite, gorge rising. She set it aside, composed herself, and pulled a thick weskit and cowl on over her shirt, drawing the hood up to shield her face from the biting wind as she stepped out into the camp. In Axel’s large tent, she could make out the healer silhouetted by his bright magefyre lights, bent over a low cot. Artemis  and Konrad moved around setting up the other tents and unloading the wagon, and Kit stumped across the clearing to loose the wagon horses from their harness.

‘I’ll deal with these guys.’ she said, muffling another cough. Artemis gave her a searching look, pushing her hair back, and nodded once, jerking a thumb towards a pile of rope and a tarpaulin left between three trees in the sheltered lee of a rocky outcrop.

‘Over there should make a decent lean-to. Oh, the halla is hanging around with your demon horse.’

‘Not a demon.’ Kit groaned, the response near instinctive now, and trudged across to the tarpaulin with the two exhausted wagon horses following, heads low. She rigged the lean-to between the trees with practice motions, rolling out a bundle of thin stakes and rope to form a makeshift fence around it, and swept the snow out from under the resulting shelter. Gaheris shambled across to wedge his muzzle in her shoulder, snuffling, and she pressed her face into the shelter of his warm neck for a long moment, breathing slowly.

A soft touch on her elbow made her jump, and she looked up to find the halla nosing at her sleeve, one foreleg cocked as if ready to spring away.

‘Hello.’ she said low, offering her hand, palm flat. It nosed at her fingers, and she crooked them delicately, scratching gently along its jaw. ‘Our healer is doing all he can for your friend. Will you let me look after you?’

The dark eyes that pinned her were frighteningly intelligent. Kit held her breath – and after a long, suspended moment, the halla padded into the enclosure. Gaheris snorted and nosed at its horns gently.

She fetched water from the frozen stream, smashing through the thin ice with the hilt of her blade, and laid out grain from the stores for the horses, the problem of what to feed the halla quickly solved when it stuck its muzzle into the trough beside Gaheris with great enthusiasm. The blood had dried thick and crusted on its sleek, beautiful coat, and Kit spent a long time brushing it away with a stiff-bristle brush, the three horses fed, rubbed down and content to doze in the corner with their rough woollen blankets thrown over their shoulders. The halla stood trusting as she combed her fingers through its thick fur, finding shallow arrow wounds which had already begun to scab, and one longer slash from something bladed marring its long, graceful neck. She cleaned the wound and smoothed ointment across the torn flesh, wrapping a bandage carefully around it to protect it, and the halla licked delicately at her fingers, tasting the elfroot.

‘Wish I knew your name.’ Kit murmured, scratching gently behind its horns. ‘Gaheris and the others will keep you warm at least.’

She left them dozing under the tarpaulin, the halla tucked in the middle of the knot of horses, and carried the brushes and grain back to the wagon. Artemis handed her a knife and a hunk of dried rabbit silently, gesturing to the large stewpot bubbling away on the large fire, and she settle on a clean-swept rock beside the flames, setting her toes as close as she could without scorching her boots.

‘Kapitan came by to check on us.’ Konrad said. ‘She said they’re almost done.’

‘What else needs doing?’ Kit asked without lifting her gaze from the meat she was slicing evenly into bite-sized chunks and tossing in the pot.

‘Nothing.’ Artemis said quietly, taking a seat beside her. ‘Camp is set. Axel is doing everything he can for the elf. Em is still asleep – finish that and go sit with him. We’ll call you when the others come back.’

 

*

**[A letter to Amaris Trevelyan, received 24 Haring, 9:37 Dragon]**

_Ris_ **_,_ **

_Sorry it’s taken me so long to write back – I came down with the sickness that’s been decimating the refugee camps. I’m fine now, don’t fret. We’re on our way from Starkhaven to Markham. I’m past caring if I’m spotted, to be perfectly honest. If father thinks he can drag me home now, he’s got another thing coming. Apart from anything else, there’ll be an entire pack of Draufgänger more than happy to storm the mansion and break me free - I’m not too worried._

_Now, here’s a sentence you never thought you’d hear me say. See me write? Whichever._

_I am so, so glad Father wouldn’t let me join the Templars._

_So many of them have gone rogue in response to the Circles falling – or at least, I hope they’ve gone rogue, because if they haven’t that means the Chantry condones what they’re doing out here, and that opens up a whole ethical dilemma I do not feel equal to facing._

_Really, the fact the Divine has remained silent on the issue is bad enough._

_We came across a clan of Dalish in the forest north of Markham. They’d been massacred, Ris, there’s no other word for it. We’d ridden into the treeline for shelter, and the little Dalish boy we found alone a few weeks back – Embrium, we’ve been calling him – recognised where we were. He bolted from Gaheris’ back and I chased after him into hell itself._

_It was templars. Two of their own were dead amongst the Dalish, left to rot with their victims, and I know a broadsword wound when I see one. There was one survivor, a woman whose halla carried her away. She’s gravely wounded, we don’t know if she will survive. Em recognises her, that’s for sure, but he’s still not really talking, and my elvish is limited to a few words._

_We should be in Markham soon. I don’t know where we’ll go after that – depends on what work we can find. Not long until Wintermarch and First Day – here’s hoping the new year goes better than the last. I’d say I can’t see how things could get worse, but after everything that’s happened that rather seems like tempting fate._

_Go in the Maker’s light, sister._

_Kit_

_PS: Fine, I’ll write to Gav. On your head be it if he winds up trussed naked in a ditch because he rode out to bring me back._

*

The Chantry was decorated in winter plumage for First Day, holly berries red and shining amongst glossy green leaves in elaborate, candle-studded wreaths. Amaris finished lighting the wicks and knelt at the feet of Andraste to pray, grateful for the heavy layers of her initiate’s robes against the cold stone, padding her poor knees.

The doors to the Chantry swung open, admitting a rush of icy air and swirling snow, and she glanced over her shoulder to see a pair of late arrivals for Vespers, travellers in worn, nondescript leathers and heavy cloaks, hoods drawn against the wind. They filed in to the back pew, kneeling quickly, and Amaris returned her attention to the service, rising to take her place in the choir and lift her voice in the Chant, quickly losing herself in the meditative, measured ceremony.

Incense hung heavy in the air as the Chant echoed melodically from pillar to pillar, and she breathed it in, seeking the peace singing the word of the Maker’s Bride always brought her, even as the sound faded away and Revered Mother Elain began her sermon, her face grave.

Tucked inside her robe, Kit’s letter rustled faintly as she moved, the paper scratching over her skin through her thin undershirt, and once the service was concluded and she had finished her duties, Amaris slipped back into the first pew to kneel and pray again for her sister. Silence fell over the Chantry as the congregation left, and Mother Elain joined her, kneeling somewhat stiffly beside her.

‘You seem troubled, my child.’ she said, gentle, after a long moment of peaceful silence.

‘I received a letter from my sister, Revered Mother.’ Amaris murmured, her eyes downcast, hands still clasped in prayer. ‘I know she is doing good work in dark times, but I can’t help but worry for her. She has spent so long in the refugee camps she caught the breath-sickness, and though she says she is recovered, I know she is not above a white lie to spare my feelings.’

From somewhere behind them, a lone voice lifted softly in a traditional First Day hymn, layers on layers of harmony in a sweet, clear-ringing tone.

‘ _The holly and the ivy_

_When they are both full grown_

_Of all the trees that are in the wood_

_The holly bears the crown’_

 

‘Ah, our wayward Caterina.’ Elain smiled, though the careworn creases around her eyes which seemed to deepen everyday tightened slightly. ‘I’m sorry to hear she has been ill, but I would not worry yourself overmuch. In the short time she spent with us, she struck me as an indomitable spirit – if anyone can make their own way in these dark times, I would say your sister has a fair chance.’

‘That’s Kit for you.’ Amaris sighed. ‘Thank you, Revered Mother.’

‘ _Oh the rising of the sun,_

_And the running of the deer_

_The playing of the merry organ_

_Sweet singing in the choir’_

 

‘I will keep her in my prayers.’ Elain promised, and rose stiffly, groaning. ‘Oh, these floors are not kind on an old woman’s joints. No, no my child, I’m fine. Seek your answers from the Our Lady.’

She shuffled away, her robe whispering over the stone, and Amaris closed her eyes again, returning to her prayers – even as the song rose in volume, strangely familiar.

 

‘ _The holly bears a blossom,_

_White as lily-flower_

_And when the sun is newly-born_

_‘Tis at the darkest hour’_

 

One of the travellers settled in the pew beside her, still cloaked and hooded, a pair of gloved hands folding over the polished wood as she continued to sing, and Amaris all but sobbed with relief, suspicion crystallising into certainty.

_‘The holly bears a berry,_

_And blood-red is it’s hue_

_And when the sun is newly born,_

_It maketh all things new.’_

 

Kit sang, her clear, classically-trained alto so at odds with the battle-scarred leathers and worn cloak she wore, light greaves strapped around her forearms glinting in the candlelight. Amaris turned her hand palm up on the wood, and when gloved fingers slid into and tightened she nearly wept, even as she lifted her own voice in song.

 

_‘The holly bears a leaf,_

_That is forever green_

_And when the sun is newly born,_

_Let love and joy be seen.’_

 

They harmonised as simply as they had ever done, soprano and alto soaring into the arched space above them, easy and practiced as breathing.

 

_‘The holly and the ivy,_

_The mistletoe entwine,_

_And when the sun is newly born,_

_Be joy and thee to thine.’_

 

Kit pushed back her hood enough for Amaris to see a little of her face, her smile beaming.

‘Happy First Day, sister.’ she said, her voice rough and low, and Amaris threw her arms around her, laughing with sheer relief.

‘Oh you.’ she whispered. ‘I could _shake_ you, I really could.’

‘Ow, ow.’ Kit chanted, extricating herself gingerly from the bone-crushing grip. ‘Maker, Amaris, what have they been feeding you here? Can we steal you for a little while?’

‘We?’

Kit pointed over her shoulder and Amaris twisted to find the second traveller in the pew behind them, her hood pushed back just enough to reveal an older woman with smooth dark skin and golden eyes, her grin a slash of bright teeth in the shadow cast by her cloak.

‘Greetings.’ she murmured, and bowed. ‘It is an honour.’

‘Amaris, may I introduce Kapitan Sascha of the Draufgänger.’ Kit said grandiosely, sweeping her arm in an expansive gesture. ‘Sascha, my twin sister, Initiate Amaris Trevelyan of the Ostwick Chantry, daughter of Bann Trevelyan and Lady Marietta.’

‘...Just Amaris.’ her sister deadpanned, offering her hand. ‘Unless you find even three syllables too much, in which case you can call me Ris.’

‘Sascha.’ the older woman grinned, squeezing her hand in a deadly grip.

‘So can you steal away?’ Kit asked, eyes bright. ‘A farmer on the edge of town gave us lodgings in an empty barn. It’s warm and we’ve mulled wine and hotcakes cooking on the griddle.’

‘Give me a minute.’ Amaris said, heart singing. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

*

Elain gave her free pass for the night with a smile and a secretive tap to her nose as soon as Amaris explained the situation in hushed whispers. She took the slip with a thankful curtsy and hurried away to find Kit pacing impatiently near the doors, her hood pulled low again, Sascha leaning indolently against a nearby pillar and watching her with an amused smile, hundreds of heavy, fine braids spilling over her shoulder as she idly played with them.

‘Yes!’ Kit cheered under her breath at the sight of her, and threw a third battered cloak around her. ‘There we go, pull your hood up. I’ll feel a lot less twitchy once we’re hiding in the barn again.’

‘Do you really feel so ill-at-ease?’ Amaris asked softly, tucking her arm through Kit’s as they left the Chantry for the icy bite of Ostwick’s streets. ‘Why did you come if you’re so worried about being caught?’

‘We were passing nearby.’ Kit said. ‘And I missed you. I would visit Gav too if I didn’t think it would be pushing my luck. As much as I joke about it, I’d rather not have Sascha and the pack rescuing me from the manor after our illustrious father chained me in some cellar.’

‘He wouldn’t.’ Amaris said, low. ‘He’s not a monster, Kit.’

‘I was fifteen, Ris.’ Kit said, and her shadowed gaze beneath her heavy hood was straight and unblinking. ‘He left me in that room for three days.’

Amaris lowered her eyes to the frozen street and said nothing. Beneath her hand, the muscles of Kit’s forearm – so much leaner and stronger than she remembered – shifted, tensing, then relaxed with studied control.

‘Come on.’ she said, picking up her pace as they left the busy streets behind and headed down the main road towards the nearest farm. ‘I want you to meet Sulahn, she’s doing so much better.’

‘Sulahn?’ Amaris asked, mentally shuffling through the names she had picked out of Kit’s letters without any faces to ascribe them too – Stein, the mountain-man, Axel the healer with the sly sense of humour, Artemis and Konrad the married hunters who liked to prank newcomers to the pack.

‘The Dalish woman we found.’ Sascha said from behind them, and it took all of Amaris control not to jump. The older woman moved silently even over the crunching snow, and Kit shot her a fondly exasperated look over her shoulder.

‘Yes, did you get my last letter?’

‘You mean the one where you told me you’d caught the breathing-sickness?’ Amaris said grimly. ‘Oh, _yes_ , I got your last letter.’

‘....I said I was fine.’

‘You said that when you fell out of the oak tree when we were twelve. Then you bled from your ear for three days. And the time Gaheris fell and landed on your leg. And the day you nearly drowned.’

She twisted to pin Sascha with a stern gaze as they approached a large barn from which singing and loud laughter was spilling with golden lamplight through the cracks in the wooden walls, pooling on the frosted ground. ‘Don’t ever, ever believe her when she says she’s fine.’

‘We have learned that.’ Sascha said, her wolfish grin turning wry. ‘Trial and error. Come.’

She opened the barn door, bowing courteously as Kit escorted Amaris past, and they were greeted by cheerful hollers from the assembled pack lounging around a brazier which burned with magefyre. A slender, olive-skinned man went faintly pale at the sight of her, but held his ground, kicking a long, carved stave out of sight surreptitiously. Kit sighed.

‘Axel, its fine.’ she said, her voice coaxing and so much more...grown, than Amaris remembered. She sounded less a stubborn girl and more a confident woman. ‘This is my sister, Amaris. Ris, the Draufgänger.’

Axel – the mage healer? – relaxed incrementally, and Amaris pushed her hood back to give him the brightest smile she could.

‘I understand I’ve you to thank for saving my idiot twin’s life.’ she said, pitching her voice soft and unthreatening. ‘You have my unending gratitude, messere – if she died in a ditch somewhere, Father would pester me for all eternity.’

‘ _Hey_.’ Kit said, indignant as she shed her own cloak and a heavy woollen weskit – but before Amaris could fully examine her in the light, or she could finish her sentence, a small dark-haired blur erupted from the piles of hay and launched itself at her midriff.

‘Oof!’ Kit wheezed, staggering, and fell to the ground with a controlled, exaggerated motion. ‘Aagh, Sascha, help!’

The small Dalish boy perched on her stomach giggled at her theatrics, his dark eyes bright beneath his wildly curling hair, and Amaris softened at the sight of him, matching him mentally to her sister’s description of a cold, lost child sleeping in a patch of sweet-scented embrium.

Sascha plucked him from his perch with a hand fisted tightly in the back of his smock, and he hung, laughing as she spun him gently and set him on his feet.

‘Well done, little wolf.’ she said, approving. ‘Soon even I will not see you hiding.’

‘Don’t encourage him.’ Kit groaned, still prone on the floor. ‘Maker, how can someone so small gain so much momentum?’

From the hayloft above them a musical voice called out in a lilting language that flowed like water, and Kit propped herself on her elbows, answering in kind. Slender, bare feet appeared on the ladder, and a Dalish woman of breathtaking beauty descended the ladder. She was slim as a young willow, her ears curving to delicate points, her hair a curtain of fine silk about her shoulders,  and moonbeam pale all over, her skin near translucent, lashes and hair whiter than the snow falling outside, eyes the clear grey-blue of frozen water.

‘Sulahn, this is my sister, Amaris.’ Kit said, getting to her feet as Sascha tossed the boy into the piles of hay and came to solicitously guide the Dalish woman to a seat by the brazier. She was limping, a little, and Amaris could see dressings peeking out from beneath the loose, homespun dress she wore.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ Sulahn said, her voice stronger than one might imagine to look at her. ‘Forgive Samahl his exuberance – he’s been cooped up in here all day, and Kit encourages him so.’

‘Does this look like encouragement?’ Kit groused, even as the boy launched another attack from a different pile of hay and she went down yelling with laughter, tickling him into submission.

‘Come, sit.’ Sascha encouraged her, patting the rough-hewn bench beside Sulahn as she shed her own cloak. ‘Stein, pour some wine for the lady.’

Amaris took the offered seat, and smiled at Sulahn.

‘I’m glad to see you well.’ she said. ‘Kit writes to me, but the last I received from her they were worried you would not pull through. It’s strange – I’ve never met any of these people, but I feel like I know you all.’

Sulahn smiled, pain tucked away in the creases of her mouth as she took the goblet of mulled wine from Stein and passed it to her.

‘She is kind, your sister.’ she said. ‘She hides it under gruffness and misdirection, but you only have to watch her to see it. See how Samahl dogs her steps? He worships her and Sascha.’

Amaris grinned, watching her twin and the boy tussle on the far side of the brazier, making a game of how far Kit could toss him into the piles of hay.

‘She’s always had a way with children.’ she said. ‘Our Father would uncharitably say it’s because she never grew up herself.’

‘I owe her a great debt.’ Sulahn said low. ‘She found Samahl, my cousin who we had lost in our flight – and she was the one who found me and brought me to Axel to be healed. All the rest of our clan perished.’

Her gaze dipped, unbidden, to the symbol of the Chantry embroidered on Amaris’ robes, and a hot wash of shame rushed over the young initiate.

‘I’m so, so sorry for what was done to your clan.’ Amaris said, low. ‘I joined the Chantry because it was my family’s wishes, and because I truly believe in the word of Andraste. But I cannot condone the actions of these rogue Templars – nor the inaction of the Chantry in the face of their savagery.

Sulahn held her gaze for a long moment, and nodded slowly.

‘Thank you.’ she murmured. ‘It seems we all face crisis of faith in the wake of this war. I know Kit has struggled with her devotion to your Maker in the face of all she has seen – or, if not to your Maker, then at least to the dictates of the Chantry.’

‘Gods are all well and good.’ Amaris said, quoting a distant memory of their grandmother. ‘It’s people that make things complicated.’

Sulahn laughed, a clear ringing sound, and the tension eased between them as Samahl ran to hide behind them, Kit stalking across the barn with hay sticking out of her shirt and her eyes dancing in the brazier light.

‘Stop frightening my cousin and speak with your sister.’ Sulahn scolded, pouring wine into a battered tin cup for her. Kit threw herself on the ground at their feet, all long limbs and unconscious grace, and Amaris found herself studying the minute details of her sister’s face, heart tightening in her chest. The young noblewoman who had waved goodbye to her after their brother’s wedding was all but vanished, the heavy curtain of her hair shorn away, her face thinner and older, a red scar bisecting one brow and cheek in a line that narrowly missed her eye. She was leaner, harder, her hands roughened, all the polish stripped from her mannerisms, and Amaris frowned at the narrowness of her waist, poking her with her foot.

‘Don’t they feed you?’ she demanded. Kit groaned, rolling over to bury her face in her arms.

‘Maker, not you too – do I look that terrible?’

‘A little gaunt, perhaps, for a shemlen.’ Sulahn said diplomatically. ‘If you would eat everything Axel keeps forcing into your hands instead of giving most of it away, perhaps you would regain your weight a little faster.’

‘Kit.’ Amaris said, deeply disapproving. ‘Do you mean to say this is because you were ill?’

‘She should be fully recovered.’ Sascha said sternly, descending from the hayloft carrying a box in both hands and settling at Kit’s hip, leaning back comfortably against her. ‘But every time I turn my back she gives her bread and meat to the needy we see.’

‘I don’t need it all.’ Kit argued, muffled into her arms. ‘And there are so many of them. Besides, if I ate everything you stuffed in my hand I’d be the size of a horse. I am putting weight back on, just slowly.’

‘Worst patient!’ Axel called from across the brazier, not looking up from a complicated looking card game.

‘Witch doctor!’ Kit shot back without lifting her head, and Sascha rolled her eyes heavenwards, leaning over to drop a kiss on the nape of her neck.

‘Don’t sulk.’ she said, her voice low and fond. ‘I have brought a treat for us all to share.’

She wafted the box near Kit’s head, who turned enough to sniff the air cautiously, only for her eyes to light up.

‘Wintermarch cakes!’ she said, and rolled onto her back to prop herself up against one of the sawn off logs drawn up as seats. The box was duly opened and the sticky sweet cakes passed out, the air filling with the scents of dried fruit and spices. Kit grinned at her, honey smudged deliberately on the end of her nose and Amaris laughed until it hurt, the memory welling up of perching in a row with her siblings on the kitchen table and watching wide-eyed as their grandmother and the cook skilfully rolled and shaped the sticky dough, the room filled with the sweet scents of Wintermarch, Lia stealing the honey pot to pass down to them and Kit nearly getting them caught when she dropped it in her eagerness.

In what seemed like minutes she was forced to leave them or risk the wrath of the dormitory sister, and she rose with real regret. Little Samahl had fallen asleep curled in Kit’s lap, and she lifted him carefully into Sascha’s, leaning into speak to the dozing Kapitan quietly. She nodded, lazy, her eyes slits of liquid gold, and kissed Kit with an easy, languid motion. Amaris raised her eyebrows at her sister when they broke apart, and Kit rubbed the back of her neck, the blush familiar and endearing on this strange, hardened version of her sister.

‘I’ll walk you back to the Chantry.’ she said, fetching their cloaks while Amaris made her farewells, and they stepped out together into the silence of the frozen night, eyes adjusting swiftly to the bright silver landscape under the swollen moon.

‘I’ve missed you.’ Amaris said, soft, wrapping her arm through Kit’s again. ‘Missed this.’

‘This?’ Kit asked curiously, and she struggled for the words.

‘Just – simple happiness. Sharing First Day with family or friends. Sticky Wintermarch cakes, and mulled wine, and knowing that my family are all warm and safe and well even when everything seems so terrible.’

‘You really worry about me, don’t you?’ Kit murmured as they entered the town proper.

‘I do.’ Amaris said, deciding honesty was the best policy. ‘I just – after what happened in Kirkwall, everything seems to go from bad to worse, and the things you describe in your letters frighten me. It frightens me even more to imagine you caught up in the middle of all that.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t.’ Kit said, running a hand through her hair. ‘I don’t know what to say to reassure you – yes, it’s terrible, and sometimes it’s dangerous, but I’ve got good people to watch my back, and it’s not like I’m defenceless. And I think it’s worth it, the risk, if it means we can do something good in the face of all this horror.’

She plucked awkwardly at her sleeves. ‘The others scold me, for giving my food to the refugees, but...there are some days when it seems like that’s all I can do. They need so much more and I’m helpless to give it, but I can at least give them a crust of bread or a piece of meat. A little decency, a little kindness – if we lose those then there’s no hope at all.’

They had reached the side-door to the Chantry and Amaris fought back a tremble in her voice as she stopped to look at her sister, gazing up at the moon above the steeple. Caught in profile and illuminated in silver, she looked like one of the noble paintings lining the gallery of the Trevelyan manor, and Amaris stifled a snort of laughter at the thought of Kit sitting still long enough to be captured on canvas.

‘I miss Lia most at this time of year.’ she confessed, soft. ‘Do you remember the honey pot?’

‘She stole it for us.’ Kit said, her gaze distant. ‘And I dropped it and caught it again at the last second. I was so sure cook had seen us, but Gav distracted her.’

She blew out a long, slow breath. ‘Maker, I haven’t thought of that for a while.’

‘There’s been so much death this year.’ Amaris murmured. ‘So many pyres. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine how to go on – where to start.’

‘One foot in front of the other.’ Kit said, and embraced her tightly. ‘First Day blessings, Ris. I’ll come see you again before we leave.’

She tore away before Amaris could do more than return the traditional words, vanishing into the deep shadows cast by the buildings on either side of the square between two heartbeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief chapter notes because it's late and I'm tired and I'll probably check them/edit tomorrow:
> 
> -Poem: 'In Flander's Fields - 'We are the dead/short days ago/we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow/ loved and were loved/and now we lie/in Flanders Fields'. I'm a second-gen military brat on both sides of my family and have grown up very aware of the history of WW2 in particular, WW1 to a lesser extent, and how it intertwines my my personal family history. 'Flanders Fields' is a poem I read when I was very young, before an audience as part of an Armistice day service, and to this day I can usually recite it word perfect without having to think about it at all. When I sat down to consider what I was trying to show in this chapter - the bewilderment in the face of so much reckless death - it immediately sprang to mind. In so many games you come across random dead bodies as plot devices, in DA:I they actually made me believe that these had been people with their own lives and troubles and cares. I wanted to take letters and personal effects to relatives miles away, and felt actually guilty if I didn't. Bioware man. 
> 
> \- Cullen. Oh Cullen, you are the whipping post of the Thedosian universe. Seriously man, I do not envy your job at all right now. IT'S OK, THINGS WILL GET BETTER...EVENTUALLY. 
> 
> -Sulahn and Samahl/Embrium - I'm writing this organically, once I got the timeline hashed out I didn't do much in the way of planning chapters, and possibly it shows in these RANDOM CHARACTERS that pop out of nowhere. Kit is fascinated by the Dalish - they're so alien to everything she's ever known - and I wanted to show how the fallout from Kirkwall could have effected them as well.  
> Sulahn is albino. Why? I have no idea. She walked into my head fully-formed in that annoying way that characters sometimes do. I headcanon her as looking a great deal like the russian model Nastya Zhidkova (google her, she is shockingly beautiful and also really adorable and sometimes sings in french on youtube). Sulahn means 'sing', she was originally called something else and was renamed by her doting parents when it became apparent she had the voice of nightingale. To add insult to the injury dealt to her and Samahl's clan, she was one of the three mages in the clan at the time - and, the only survivor of the attack. Hefty dose of survivors guilt right there.  
> Samahl (Embrium) - his name means 'laugh' or 'laughter'. He's Sulahn's 'cousin' - probably more distant than that, but who's counting. He's of her clan and they're the only two left. While they were fleeing Templar pursuit, he vanished, nobody is sure how, and wound up in that patch of embrium, half-frozen, where Kit would fall over him a day or so later. By sheer coincidence, the Draufganger followed the same rough path as the clan and the Templars chasing them, arriving on the scene less than twenty four hours after the massacre - just too late to reunite Samahl with his mother. 
> 
> -The song Kit and Amaris sing is a pagan-rewrite of 'The Holly and The Ivy' which is most likely quite similar to pre-Christian songs - the version we sing today is likely the christianised version after the churches kind of smushed the pagan and christian holidays together to make conversion easier. I didn't write it, it's from here: http://piereligion.org/yuleslyrics.html  
> As the daughter of a noble family, Kit was brought up to sing and play an instrument like her sisters. She's a classically trained alto, and embarrassed as hell about it because she can't break years of drilling to sing like a normal person when the draufganger get into their booze and sing folk songs, and they tease her horrifically about it. She can plunk out a semi-decent tune on a harpischord, with great reluctance. 
> 
> I....am sure I will think of something else to put in here tomorrow but it's late and I'm falling asleep. Enjoy!


	4. Stop. Stand. Stretch Out Your Hand.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kit learns something about herself, Cassandra is pleasantly surprised for once in her life, Cullen weighs up whether requisitions paperwork is more or less appealing than a conversation with the Left Hand of the Divine, Varric is the Most Unsubtle, and the Empress of the largest empire in southern Thedas picks a really good time for a family fall-out. 
> 
> Can you really recognise the calm before a storm without the blade-sharp blessing of hindsight?

**_[An excerpt from the travelling journal of Kit Trevelyan, dated 27 Drakonis, 9:38 Dragon]_ **

 

_Today I explored a ruined mansion, triggered a trap, and got myself locked in a cellar. Then, I lost my mind._

_It took the rest of them the better part of an hour to find me, and then some more for Sten to bash the fake wall in. I don’t remember much after it slammed shut behind me, but it’s been hours now and my hands won’t stop shaking – or bleeding. Fingernails on stone isn’t pretty. Sascha keeps looking at me like the shaking might spread and shatter me, and I can’t **stand** it. _

_Maker, I thought I’d gotten past this. **I have to be stronger than this**._

 

_*_

 

‘My father locked me in my dead sister’s room for three days for mentioning her name.’

She could feel Sascha’s gaze burning on her skin as she sat on the rock a short distance from the others staring at her bandaged hands, palms open and upward on her knees. She flexed each finger in turn, dull pain shooting through the nerves and torn skin.

‘She died when Amaris and I were thirteen.’ she continued before Sascha could speak, knowing if she broke the momentum she would never be able to start again. ‘The eldest of us. I...I worshipped the ground she walked on, always following her around. Gaheris was hers. They went on a trip to Val Royeaux to visit Mother’s family, and...she didn’t come back. That’s all I know. They removed all trace of her from the house, from her rooms – it was like she’d never existed. They never spoke of her, and I mentioned her name once, in passing. He struck me – across the face. Broke my nose. It was the first time he’d ever raised a hand to any of us, I don’t know who was more shocked. I was frightened and furious and I wouldn’t back down. He grabbed me by the collar and threw me in her rooms. They’d been cleaned out and locked up, all the furniture covered in sheets...I was in there without water or food for three days. I think I went a little mad.’

Sascha lowered herself to sit on the ground beside her, the short spring grass damp and cool beneath her hands.

‘What was her name?’ she asked, soft and low, and Kit closed her eyes, the weight of the name locked behind her tongue by habit and dull grief.

‘...Liora.’ she murmured. ‘Liora Hanelle Trevelyan, first-born and heir. My Lia.’

It felt so good to say it, like the first breath of fresh dawn air after a summer storm, like the thundering beat of Gaheris’ hooves in her ears as they rode away from Ostwick that first day, the horizon unfurling before them. Like something fragile and precious lifting free.

‘There was more,’ Sascha said, slow and astute, ‘than just the locked door, yes? Something...else.’

Kit flexed her hands, and sighed.

‘I don’t know if I imagined it or not.’ she said dully. ‘But when my mother came to let me out she found me huddled in the wardrobe covered in blood with a warped metal poker in my hand. I was insensate. I always thought I had just scared myself into hallucinating but now...after we came across that nest of wraiths last month...I think there was one in the room. I don’t know how, or where it came from, but I remember...’

Her voice trailed to a whisper, gaze distant. Sascha waited patiently, until awareness returned to her eyes and she shook herself like Gaheris ridding himself of a bothersome fly.

‘I don’t know what I remember. Doesn’t really matter.’

 Sascha didn’t press the matter, though her gaze remained dark and worried as she caught Sulahn’s glance across the campfire and shrugged faintly. The elvhen mage pursed her lips, and approached cautiously, carrying a tin mug full of something steaming.

‘Here.’ she said softly, folding gracefully to her knees before Kit and offering it to her. ‘It will help you sleep, _da’len_.’

‘And you need the rest.’ Sascha interjected, stern. ‘Tomorrow we will strike out away from Ostwick again.’

‘You are _not_ that much older than me.’ Kit said to the elf, a spark of humour returning to her voice as she eyed the cup with some trepidation. ‘....will I still dream?’

‘No.’ Sulahn assured her, folding the mug into her fingers without commenting on the way they shook. ‘It will keep your sleep dreamless, _da’len_ , I swear.’

Kit almost spilled the steaming liquid over her torn knuckles in her haste to drink. Sulahn set aside the mug and pressed a rag to her lips to dry them as Kit slumped dizzily, her eyes gone wide.

‘Potent.’ Sascha observed, catching her about the waist.

‘You were right, she needs the rest.’ Sulahn said, helping her ease Kit to her feet and half-carry her back to the fire where Samahl jumped up to helpfully unroll her blankets for them, hovering as they laid her down. Kit’s eyes were mostly closed, her lashes dark smudges casting shadows over the slice of hazy green reflecting the firelight, and Samahl curled down next to her, cautious.

‘...alright, pup?’ Kit managed, her voice hoarse with beckoning sleep, and Samahl pulled her arm around him, tucking his head under her chin.

‘Sleep.’ he said in his high, clear voice, and Sulahn ran a hand through his dark curls.

‘You take care of her for me, _da’len_.’ she told him, and he nodded, solemn as a scholar.

 

*

 

Kit woke early, punched from a sleep as heavy and smothering as velvet and utterly disorientated until she felt the same sharp discomfort again – Samahl’s bony elbow firmly embedded in her ribs as he slept. She eased away from the boy carefully, wincing at the cotton-fluff dryness of her mouth, and managed to leave him curled alone in the bedroll as she staggered to the small spring they had camped by and immersed her head to clear the fog from her senses. She surfaced, sputtering at the chill, to find Sulahn stretching in her bedroll, one hand cupped over her still healing ribs as she winced. Her hair, normally sleek as a snow-panther, was a tangled puff not unlike a dandelion head, and Kit couldn’t help the smile that broke at the sight of her.

‘You woke early.’ she said, her voice hoarse with sleep.

‘Your cousin has sharp elbows.’ Kit said, and drank heavily from the spring with her cupped hands. ‘What was in that potion? I feel like something small and furry died in my mouth.’

‘Axel Special, with a few of my own tweaks.’ Sulahn told her. ‘Don’t ask. Are you going into the city?’

‘I should say goodbye to Amaris.’ Kit said, peeling tacky dressings away from her fingers and wincing at the dark bruises that had blossomed into full, storm-cloud glory overnight. ‘Or she’ll never forgive me.’

‘You should clean up first.’ Sulahn said. ‘You look a little....’

‘Frightful?’ Kit supplied ruefully, and went to find a rag to scrub the worst of the dirt and blood from her skin.

 

*

 

Vespers had concluded, the small congregation who were pious enough to rise before dawn in the dark months hurrying away by foot or coach, muffled up in layers. Kit kept her hood drawn high and loitered just inside, waiting for Amaris to leave the choir stalls, keeping one watchful eye on the faithful who hurried past her.

Her gaze fell on the familiar dark hair of her sister, sleekly bobbed and black as corbie-wings, talking to a young man with the same hair, dressed in clothes that were all the richer for their lack of ornamentation, and she grinned, joy bubbling up inside her. She slipped along the pews, sticking to the shadows, until she had circled round behind the man, and pushed her hood back far enough for Amaris to see her face, wrinkling her nose teasingly at her sister.

‘Oh no.’ Amaris hissed. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Well that’s a fine welcome.’ Kit said indignantly, and the man span on his heel, dark eyes gone wide and stunned.

‘Kit!’ Gavriel gasped, and she laughed at him, pushing her hood all the way back as he threw his arms around her, squeezing hard.

‘Hello brother.’ Kit wheezed. ‘Not like you to make it to Vespers, you layabout.’

‘Layabout!’ Gavriel said indignantly. ‘You’re a runaway, you can hardly comment on my character!’

‘I didn’t run _away_ from home, I ran _towards_ freedom and sanity.’ Kit corrected, and grinned sharply. ‘The two directions just happened to coincide. How’s Jeannie?’

‘Good, she’s good – we’re expecting our firstborn in a week or so, so she’s pretty much confined to the house at the moment.’

‘You didn’t tell me that!’ Kit accused their sister. ‘Maker, Gavriel, congratulations. Just do me a favour, don’t promise them to the Chantry OK? _Learn_ from our father’s mistakes.’

‘Yes, yes, let’s continue this outside - ’ Amaris muttered, seizing them both by their elbows and hustling them through the doors to a narrow, steeply-stepped alley that ran beside the Chantry and away down the hill to the harbour.

Gavriel rolled his eyes at her as they were pulled along, though his expression was fond. ‘You don’t change, do you? But what are you doing here?’

‘Just passing through.’ Kit told him. ‘I came to say goodbye, actually, we’re leaving in an hour or so. Don’t ask me where, Gav, you know I won’t tell you. I’d rather not be spending the whole trip looking over my shoulder for our illustrious father’s faithful dogs.’

‘Well in that case you’d better start running now, because – _too late.’_

Kit blinked at Amaris, who had covered her eyes with one hand as if she couldn’t bear to watch, examined Gavriel’s stricken expression, and sighed.

‘He’s standing right behind me, isn’t he?’

‘I tried to tell you.’ Amaris said philosophically, pushing her hand through her hair. Kit gave her a flat look, turning on her heel to confront the dark haired man standing frozen below them on the stairs, silhouetted against the grey dawn skyline of the harbour.

‘Caterina.’

‘Never was, never will be.’ Kit replied, something fierce and exultant singing in her blood, setting her heart thrumming – with adrenaline, but not _fear_ , and wasn’t that interesting? ‘Hello, Father. You’re looking well. I fulfilled Nana’s last wishes, by the way – Great Aunt Andra decidedly does not send her best.’

Her father’s face had grown sterner than she remembered, the silver in his dark hair more pronounced, and she found herself searching the hard features for any trace of the distantly affectionate man who had taught her to ride and laughed when she declared she could outrace any of the stablehands.

There was none.

She turned her back on him, stretched up to brush her lips over Gavriel’s cheek and squeeze Amaris’ hand.

‘Time I was going.’ she said, affecting breeziness. ‘Give Jeannie my love, Gav, I’ll send something when the baby is born. Ris, take care of yourself, OK? And give Mother Elain my regards.’

Amaris darted a wary look over her shoulder at their silent father, standing between Kit and her only way out of the narrow alley, but nodded.

‘Be good.’ she said. ‘And safe. Please.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ Kit promised, and released her, striding away down the stairs without any hesitation in her gait, even as their father reached out to catch her wrist, his features twisting in anger.

‘Enough of this nonsense.’ he commanded in a voice like tempered steel, low enough to avoid drawing the attention of any passing the alley. ‘You are coming _home_ , Caterina, if I have to drag you there myself.’

Kit gazed at him for a long, hushed moment, waiting for the anger, the fear that had been present in the back of her mind ever since the fateful day when her father had raised his hand to her for both the first and last time – and found nothing. Her thoughts were clear, her heartbeat steady.

 _‘Modest in temper, bold in deed,’ she_ thought, and smiled.

It was the work of a moment to break her father’s hold on her arm, twisting easily and shifting her weight as he hissed at the sudden pressure, forced to release her – but she didn’t turn and run.

‘No, I will not.’ she said, and her voice was clear and peaceful – affable, even. ‘There is no way you can _win_ this, Father. I know now I can survive out in the world on my own, that I can do good with my own two hands and see all the Maker’s work across the lands of Thedas. These last six months have taught me a lot – I’m not _afraid_ of you anymore. You can’t hurt me, you can’t stop me. _I’m free.’_

‘You are not worthy of the name of Trevelyan.’ he growled, massaging his injured hand, dark eyes burning. ‘I’ve been lenient, so far, but my patience is at an end. Return to the estate, do your duty to your family and the Maker, and we will speak no more of this childish folly. Persist, and I shall have no choice but to strip you of the family name.’

‘Father!’ Gavriel protested, real anger in his usually mild voice. ‘Don’t be hasty!’

‘It’s alright, Gav.’ Kit soothed, the corner of her mouth curving in a smile. ‘There’s not much in a name, really, when you get out into the wide world. I have a name, _my_ name, all the name I need. It’s short and plain and practical. Disown me if you wish, Father – it won’t change me. I’ll still be ‘modest in temper and bold in deed’. Gav and Amaris will still be the brother and sister I love. And I’ll still follow the road of my own choosing.’

A gull wheeled high overhead, screeching the morning tide, and Kit breathed the familiar salty air deep into her lungs, thinking of the deep-bellied ship waiting for her in the harbour, the pack claiming spaces in the hold, shaking out bedrolls and ribbing each other good naturedly, pulling out packs of cards and tattered books for the voyage.

‘My pack is waiting for me.’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Father. I don’t imagine we’ll likely see each other again. Gav, Ris – stay safe. Write to Great Aunt Andra, would you? I think she’s bored a lot of the time.’

She bent in a perfect, stately bow, the wind ruffling her hair, and strode away down the stone steps, whistling a jaunty tune, cloak snapping in the wind.

‘Oh.’ Amaris breathed, and Gav gave her a sideways glance, though his gaze remained otherwise fixed on their fuming father as he watched his youngest daughter depart.

‘What is it?’

‘She’s going across the sea.’ Amaris said, a small smile curling her mouth. ‘Just as she always wanted.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Listen to what she’s whistling. Kit’s always talked in code around Father, its second nature to her now.’

Gavriel tilted his head, listening to the tune that danced back on the sea wind to them, and laughed, shaping the words softly in his baritone.

_‘Somewhere, beyond the sea,_

_Somewhere, waiting for me_

_My lover stands on golden sands_

_And watches the ships that go sailing’_

 

*

 

Kirkwall was...not as much of a mess as she’d been expecting.

Cassandra stood in the stern of the ship as they sailed up the narrow cutting between the towering stone walls, her nondescript travellers coat wrapped shut across her chest, hiding her cuirass and the blazing white heraldry of the Seekers. Towering above the rolling waves, the statues of cowering slaves wept into their stone hands, and she set her jaw grimly at the sight, drawing her cowl further forward over her face.

As the ship heeled over and rounded into its berth in the docks, she found no small amount of activity, despite common sense suggesting that any who had made regular port in this benighted city would have done well to do so elsewhere – many of the piers stood empty, but equally, plenty were filled, passengers embarking and disembarking, refugees fleeing the falling circles of the Marches streaming up the gangplanks, Fereldens who had decided it was past time to return home, that even their Blight-wounded homeland was better than this. She stepped around them, strode down the gangplank and joined a stream of passengers heading up through the ruins and scaffolds of Lowtown to the great stone stairs, stepping briskly to the side as four men ran past her, two clanking in the full armour and robes of the Templars, two in the slightly lighter plate of the City Guard. They ran smoothly, footfalls landing in time, clearly well practiced, and Cassandra felt her brows raise, unbidden as they rounded the bend in the stairs and vanished ahead of her.

Across the water, the Gallows were a foreboding, familiar sight, but in the two hours she spent perched on a corner of the stair watching the ferry cross back and forth, the regular squadrons of two-guard, two-templar, were not – even less so when they were accompanied by unrestrained mages, only ever one at a time, usually with a staff openly in hand. She observed the way they walked, some sticking close to the Guard, others seeming more at ease with the Knights, others again seemingly unbothered by either.

As the sun began to ease down into the water she huffed and got to her feet, descending the stairs briskly to join the queue for the ferry, sidling into a narrow space between stacks of crates where no one could pester her. She was largely ignored, aside from a handful of passing curious glances – most of Kirkwall had enough on their minds without paying notice to another traveller in nondescript clothes – and arrive in the Gallows courtyard unhindered, striding for the barracks with a growing sense of unease. _Surely, it could not be this easy -_

‘You there! Halt!’

The voice was strong, a Starkhaven accent instantly identifiable, and she turned on her heel to find a man wearing the rank of Knight-Captain striding across the courtyard towards her, his face drawn into a thunderous frown.

‘Identify yourself.’ he said sternly, hand on his sword, ready to draw. ‘And state your business.’

‘I suppose I should be thankful I only made it halfway across the yard unhindered.’ Cassandra said, her tone waspish as she pushed back her hood and shrugged the patched coat open to reveal her armour and sigil. ‘I am Seeker Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine. And you are?’

The man snapped to attention, fist coming up in salute. ‘Ser! Knight-Captain Rylen, at your service Seeker.’

‘Out of Starkhaven?’ Cassandra inquired, circling him critically. His armour was well-cared for, but the man himself looked tired and underfed, shadows beneath his eyes.

‘Yes, Seeker – I was placed in command of the relief effort to Kirkwall. Most have returned to handle the unrest in the Marches, but I and a few others volunteered to remain. There is...much to be done.’

‘As is always the case.’ Cassandra murmured. ‘At ease, Knight-Captain. I was informed that Cullen Rutherford has assumed the role of Knight-Commander, is this correct?’

‘Yes Seeker. He’s in his office, at this time.’

‘Take me to him.’ Cassandra ordered, and arched a brow when the man hesitated.

‘The Knight-Commander is the only reason there’s anything left of the Templars in Kirkwall.’ he said, with a strange mix of defiance and healthy wariness. ‘He revoked the Rite of Annulment, and co-ordinated with the City Guard so that the mages who’d stayed to help could do so without fear. ‘Magic exists to serve man’ – well it served alright, and there’d be twice as many graves if he hadn’t gone against Meredith’s orders. I’ll have no hand in him being dragged off as a scapegoat for all this madness.’

‘ _Maker save me from the honour of Templars.’_ Cassandra thought, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose – though she couldn’t help but feel a spark of interest at the Knight-Captain’s impassioned defense of his superior. A loyalty born of respect, rather than fear, seemed a novel event in Kirkwall.

‘I am not here for your commander, Knight-Captain.’ she said with what she felt was admirable patience. ‘I am passing through and require information, that is all. Now, this way?’

She strode for the doors without waiting for his reply, and he hurried to catch up, armour clanking.

‘Oi, Apprentice – Apprentice Lynsey! Pay attention boy, for Maker’s sake – run ahead and tell the Knight Commander that Seeker Pentaghast is here to see him.’

The young mage set down the sack he had been lugging across the courtyard with alacrity, snapping off something that resembled a salute, and took off ahead of them at a dead sprint, the dusty hem of his robe sweeping up a cloud in his passing. Cassandra coughed into her fist, wafting it away from her face, and Rylen sighed.

‘Sorry about that. The dust...lingers. The rain lessens it a bit but it always comes back. Best not to think about it, to be honest.’

He showed her to what had clearly once been an imposing office, made somewhat less so by the way the thick oak door was propped against the stone wall beside the frame, hinges splintered. Inside, a heavy desk was laden with stacks of parchment and burned down candle-stubs, behind which sat another knight, his head bowed over his work, signing swiftly through a stack of papers which had handed to the same apprentice mage who had run ahead of them.

‘Thank you, apprentice.’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘On your way.’

The apprentice ducked past them, papers clutched to his chest, and Rylen saluted beside her as Cassandra took her first good look at Knight-Commander Rutherford.

‘ _Somebody fetch this boy a square meal.’_ was the first thought that ran through her mind, followed swiftly by ‘ _Boy_ _indeed - he can’t be out of his twenties!’_

‘Thank you, Knight-Captain, that will be all.’

She waited, comfortable with the silence until Rylen had saluted and taken his leave, making no secret of his mistrust of her intentions as he passed her. Cullen straightened the stacks of parchment on the desk and pulled a second chair out from under a pile of discarded armour, pushing it silently towards her.

‘I should warn you, if you’re here to arrest me you may have to put Rylen in chains first.’ he said, calm as you please. ‘He’s staunchly supportive of the decisions I’ve made these last few months.’

‘I am not here for you.’ Cassandra said after a long, appraising silence. ‘Though I will confess to piqued interest. I am merely passing through and seeking information. I understand that the Champion and his companions fled Kirkwall after the events here at the Gallows?’

She settled into the chair as she spoke, watching him with carefully expressionless eyes.

‘I let them go.’ Cullen said, and sank into his seat also, shoulders bowed with exhaustion. ‘If you’re after their whereabouts, you would be better speaking to Guard-Captain Aveline, up at the Keep. She was here that night, but chose to remain – though if you can get anything out of her, I’ve vastly over-estimated her sheer bull-headedness.’

‘You let them go?’ Cassandra repeated as though shocked, though it was nothing she had not already heard through Leliana’s reports. Cullen rubbed a bare hand over his face, hissing when he brushed roughly against a raw wound bisecting the upper bow of his lip and carving up into his cheek, rough stitches holding the flesh together.

‘The mage Anders was dead by the Champion’s own hand.’ he said low. ‘My Knight-Commander had irrevocably demonstrated the loss of her sanity before being transformed into a statue of red lyrium in the upper courtyard, and the First Enchanter had turned to blood magic and become an abomination. The city was in ruins, half the mages were dead or fled, and my brethren were scattered. Hawke believed there was a high chance an Exalted March would bear down swiftly, and that it would likely be targeted at him. I agreed it was better for him to leave, and quickly, if we had any chance of saving what was left of the city.’

He raised his gaze to meet Cassandra’s, hazel and unflinching despite the clear exhaustion marking his pallid, drawn face.

‘Despite all evidence to the contrary, there are innocents in Kirkwall, and many of them had their homes and families decimated by the explosion or subsequent riots. They do not deserve further bloodshed.’

He breathed out slow, bracing his bare hands palm down on the desk, and spoke in the distant tones of someone repeating a worn-out mantra.

‘ _There has been enough death.’_

‘On that, we are agreed.’ Cassandra said after a long moment. ‘Do any of the Champions companions remain? Other than the Guard-Captain, that is.

‘Not that I know of.’ Cullen said. ‘Though we’ve received several generous donations towards the rebuilding from an anonymous source with ties to the Merchant’s Guild, who requested a portion to be put aside for the restoration of the Lowtown dive known as ‘The Hanged Man’. I don’t think he’s even attempting to be subtle.’

‘Who?’

‘Varric Tethras – Deshyr of Kirkwall to the Dwarven Merchants Guild and supposedly renowned author. Wherever there was trouble in Kirkwall, the Champion would be found in the middle of it with Tethras making wisecracks at his side. He’s a Kirkwaller born and bred – wherever he ends up, I don’t imagine he will ignore the city completely.’

Cassandra nodded slowly, and got to her feet. ‘Should you hear from the Champion or any of his companions, I expect you to inform me, Knight-Commander. While the ultimate blame for this mess is not neatly assignable, they cannot remove themselves from all responsibility, and Garrett Hawke may well be needed.’

Rutherford rose to his feet as well, his face set and expressionless. ‘A moment, before you go. Is information the only reason for the Right Hand of the Divine to visit, I wonder?’

Cassandra gave him a long, appraising look, and felt her estimation rise a notch higher when he met her gaze, his shoulders set. Despite his relative youth and clear exhaustion, this was not a man accustomed to backing down.

‘I am merely passing through Commander.’ she said. ‘Kirkwall need not fear the wrath of the Divine. She mourns the loss of Grand Cleric Elthina and her flock, as she mourns for all the lives lost in this mess. As you say _– there has been enough death_. Wiping the remains of this unlucky city from the map would not achieve anything.’

Braced against his desk, Cullen’s inkstained hands relaxed faintly - almost invisibly had she not been paying close attention - and she thought that perhaps someone without such practiced control might have swayed on their feet. But he stood firm, and lifted his fist to his cuirass in salute.

‘Maker watch over you, Seeker.’

‘I hope he is watching over us all, Commander – heavens know we need it.’

She took her leave without waiting for an escort, drawing her coat closed as she left the tower and crossed the courtyard again. The back of her neck prickled as drew up her hood and boarded the ferry, and she guessed that had she looked back, a figure in armour would have been stood in the window of the Knight-Commander’s office, gaze tracking her across the stones.

 

*

**_[A letter from the Right Hand to the Left, dated 13 Cloudreach, 9:38 Dragon]_ **

_What do we know of acting Knight-Commander Rutherford? The name is familiar and I do not know why._

_Kirkwall is....better than I expected. I believe it is largely a result of the efforts of Rutherford and the Guard Captain, Aveline Vallen. The Champion is long gone, that is certain -  I shall continue to seek out his companions. Varric Tethras has been donating money to the rebuilding under a thin veil of anonymity, and his responsibilities likely make it difficult for him to disappear as easily as the others. Perhaps we should focus on him._

_C_

*

 

**_[An undated letter delivered to the Ostwick Chantry in the summer of 9:38 Dragon, and left at the Trevelyan manor]_ **

_Land ho!_

_Sea voyages are awesome – at least, for the first day. Then a certain, small elf child who spent the entire day racing from bow to stern on the end of a rope (tied to Stein, on the basis that if he fell over the side we could just haul him back out again) throws up, and sets off a chain of vomiting I have never seen the like of and hope never to see again. Turns out the vast majority of the pack are abjectly seasick, but don’t tell anyone – it’s not exactly an image to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. I was alright so long as I was above deck, something about being able to see the horizon helped._

_Kiss the twins for me – I wish to Andraste I could have been there to see Gav’s face when they dropped that little bombshell on him._

_Love,_

_Kit_

*

 

**_[A stained letter rescued from a water-logged pack after fording a Minanter tributary in the Vinmark Mountains, dated 29 Justinian]_ **

_Hawke_

_I hate to up and leave like this, but with no way of knowing when you’ll be back, I don’t have much choice. If there wasn’t a purse of fifty gold with this letter though, go back and beat up the innkeep until he produces it. It’s the latest lot of interest from your investments._

_There’ve been people snooping around asking after me, and I’m pretty sure they’re looking for you – or Sunshine. Either way, I need to get my finger back on the pulse if we’re going to stay one step ahead of them. Rivaini and Daisy will be back soon, wait for them before you go anywhere else._

_Broody, you stay with him, no matter what he says. Put a Maker-damned bell on him if you have to._

_Varric_

*

 

‘Mm, where are you going?’ Sascha murmured sleepily, her strong arm snaking around Kit’s waist and hauling her back against her in the warm cocoon of their shared bedroll. Kit rolled her eyes, laughing as she twisted to kiss her.

‘Insatiable.’ she accused. ‘And I’m going to morning service – just like I intended to do yesterday before you distracted me.’

Sascha sighed, but let her sit up, cuddling up against her back and peppering kisses over the nape of Kit’s neck as she wriggled into her breastband and breeches, reaching for her shirt.

‘You need new clothes.’ she murmured, plucking at a threadbare patch. ‘This is more patch than cloth. What do you do with your coin, little lioness? I know I give you your fair cut.’

‘Save it, mostly.’ Kit shrugged, pulling on her jerkin and boots. She laced her reinforced leather gauntlets around her forearms, half-gloves pulled down to her knuckles, but wrapped the rest of her leathers up in a drawstring sack and set it aside to take into the town with her. ‘Spoil Samahl with it. The leathers and clothes I bought when I left home were good quality, they’ve lasted me well, and you take care of food for the pack – I don’t need much. You’re right though, it’s time I did some shopping, I’ll visit the market after service. Want me to pick up anything?’

Sascha considered it lazily, rolling over in their blankets – _miles of dark, naked skin which made Kit swallow and fix her gaze on the wall of their tent lest she become distracted for the second day in a row_ \- to paw through her pack. She pulled out a small, travel-stained journal in which she kept the accounts and tore out a short shopping list.

‘These, for now.’ she said. ‘I’ll get the rest once I’ve had chance to think about it.’

Kit tucked the folded page into her belt and strapped on her blades, getting to her feet. ‘Alright. I’ll be back this afternoon sometime.’

‘What shall I do to entertain myself until then?’ Sascha sighed, stretching teasingly.

‘Sulahn?’ Kit suggested, eyes dancing, and ducked the boot that was thrown at her head. ‘Oh come on Käpitan, you are the most unsubtle – wait, are you _blushing_?’

‘Out!’ Sascha growled, and Kit dove for the tent flap, snatching up her sack on the way.

‘Going! Andraste’s ass, what bit you? Other than me, I mean.’

The roar that followed her hasty exit from the tent was loud enough to make Axel stick his head out of the tent he shared with Stein, long hair disarrayed by the early hour, his eyes wide.

‘Are we under attack?’ he asked, voice hoarse with sleep.

‘Fat lot of use you’d be if we were.’ Kit said, eyeing him critically as she greeted Gaheris and threw his light saddle over his back. Sulahn’s halla, Assan, nosed eagerly at the pouches on her belt, and she dug in one to pull out a handful of dried apple, scratching gently at the base of his velvet-smooth horns. Axel shot a handful of sparks at her, making her yelp and dance sideways to avoid them as Assan bolted for the far side of the rocky glen they had camped in.

‘Maker’s balls why is everyone throwing things at me today?’ she demanded, her hands moving quickly through the familiar dance of buckling straps and easing Gaheris’ bit into his mouth, the charger standing solid and patient.

‘Must be your stellar personality.’ Axel growled. ‘Sodding Andrastians, waking everyone up at the ass-crack of dawn. Here - ’

He vanished, and emerged fully from the tent a moment later, shirtless and scratching absently at his narrow chest as he held out a slip of paper. ‘Pick these up from the alchemist for me.’

‘Do I look like a pack-mule?’ Kit groused, but took the paper and mounted Gaheris before anyone else could hand her a shopping list. ‘Go back to bed, grouchy.’

‘Gladly.’ Axel said darkly, vanishing back into his tent without a background glance – but before Kit could urge Gaheris past the rocky walls sheltering them, Sulahn’s tent flap flew open and Samahl bolted from it, haphazardly dressed, his tunic inside out, and skidded to a halt at the chargers shoulder, holding up his arms in demand.

‘Me too!’ he said, and Kit sighed.

‘I’m going to the Chantry, _da’len_.’ she said, gentle. ‘If you want to come with me, you need to talk to your cousin.’

‘I want to see!’ Samahl insisted, spinning on his heel as Sulahn emerged from the tent behind him, yawning, and bleary eyed in the pre-dawn light.

‘We talked.’ she said, rubbing a hand over her face. ‘Or, Samahl talked, I plugged my ears with cotton after about twenty minutes.’

‘I’m happy to take him.’ Kit said, steadying Gaheris with an easy touch on the reins. ‘And I’ll answer any questions he has. But it’s up to you if you feel it’s appropriate or not.’

‘I know you’ll take care of him.’ Sulahn said quietly, kneeling before Samahl to pull his tunic over his head and turn it the right way out, tugging it straight and combing her fingers through his dark curls in a vague attempt to order them. ‘I don’t know if our clan would have approved – probably not – but they’re not here. We are. And I think, perhaps, it would be good for him. He’s not going to spend his life sheltered in the aravels, he needs to understand the world.’

Kit blew an explosive huff, thinking hard, and nodded.

‘Alright then. Come on pup - ’

He scrambled up with Sulahn’s help, settling comfortably before her in the saddle, and she handed up his hooded cloak for Kit to strap behind her on the cantle.

‘We won’t be back until mid-afternoon, probably.’ Kit told her. ‘No later than sunset though.’

‘Alright.’ Sulahn said, and her voice was steady even as her hands flexed nervously. ‘Be careful. Samahl, _da’len_ – you do _exactly_ as Kit tells you, no questions asked, alright?’

_‘Ma nuvenin.’_

Kit shifted her weight in the saddle, nodding to Sulahn, ready to go – and paused as a thought struck her, a wicked smile curling the corner of her lip.

‘Oh – while I’m gone, could you check on Sascha? She was a bit out of sorts this morning.’

Sulahn blinked at her, familiar enough by now to be wary of Kit’s grin when it took on that overly-innocent cast, but too well trained as a healer to do anything but nod and agree. Kit urged Gaheris out of the cove at a brisk trot to warm his muscles up, and Samahl twisted to stare up at her suspiciously.

‘Don’t ask.’ Kit told him. ‘Not for little ears. So, what can you tell me about Amaranthine then?’

 

*

 

Kit frowned at the notice posted to the Chanter’s board, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. At her side Samahl kept one hand wrapped firmly in the hem of her jerkin, staring around the bustling city square with eyes as wide as saucers.

‘Lots of people, huh?’ Kit said to him absently, thumbing through the sheaves of parchment advertising jobs for anything Sascha might be interested in.

‘So. Many.’ Samahl managed, shrinking closer to her as a small group of clerics hurried past, robes sweeping the cobblestones, talking amongst themselves in low whispers.

‘..the Empress..’

‘...and I heard the College of Enchanters....’

 ‘Maker bless us, could anything else go wrong?’

Kit followed their path out of the corner of her eye as she shepherded Samahl over to the market stalls, digging inside her jerkin for the shopping lists. ‘So, what did you think of the Chantry?’

‘Big.’ Samahl said immediately. ‘Kind of scary.’

‘Can be if you’re not used to it.’ Kit agreed. ‘I grew up going to the Ostwick chantry but the first time I went to Val Royeaux to visit my mother’s relatives they took Amaris and I to the Chantry there to be blessed in the Summerday service. It was _huge_ , Ris spent the whole service hiding behind me, and I kept glaring at Divine Justinia for scaring my sister.’

‘Who’s Divine Justinia?’

‘She’s _the_ Divine – the Divine is the head of the Andrastian Chantry, the ultimate authority – sort of like the Keeper in a Dalish clan, I guess.’

‘You glared at your Keeper?’ Samahl said, sounding awed, and Kit fought back a grin, ruffling his curls.

‘Yeah, my parents weren’t best impressed. Hey, which one of these do you think?’

She held out two shirts in her customary style for him to peruse, one in dark sage green, the other the colour of parchment, both with loose leather laces at the throat and fitted cuffs.

‘Greeeeeeeen.’ Samahl sang, wrinkling his nose at the other. ‘Ugh, beige.’

‘Oh kid.’ Kit laughed, giving the affronted stallholder a sheepish glance. ‘You have a way with words, _da’len_. Green it is.’

She left her leathers to be mended and filled her pack with the contents of Axel and Sascha’s shopping lists, before purchasing an array of identical, plain tunics in slightly increasing sizes, with plenty of seam allowance. Samahl, at eight years old and with regular, balanced meals, had begun to grow like the embrium they’d found him in, sprouting lithe and willowy, and Sulahn could often be found around the campfire attempting to coax an extra inch out his hemlines.

He drifted slightly away from her, distracted by a stall selling bows, waxed strings hanging from a rack and arrows arranged in crates, bundles of feathers for fletching hanging from the canopy. The merchant, a city elf, looked curiously at the small boy in the Dalish embroidered tunic, and tutted when he reached out to touch an arrow, curious.

‘Ah-ah.’ Kit said, materialising at his side and catching his small hand in hers. ‘No touching, _da’len_ , unless you’re going to buy it.’

Samahl snatched his hand back with a guilty look, and tucked them firmly behind his back as if to avoid temptation. The stallholder coughed, suppressing a smile, even as he looked Kit up and down – her patched, well-worn breeches and jerkin, the hilts of her short-swords prominently visible behind her shoulders, and the rounded, human curve of her ear displayed by her short, swept back hair. She gave him an even look, and crouched beside Samahl.

‘Do you still want to learn how to use a bow?’

Samahl’s eyes widened and he nodded so hard his teeth clicked audibly together. Kit kissed his brow. ‘Alright. I’ll talk to Konrad, yeah? We’ll see about getting him to make one to your size.’

She straightened, eyeing the waxed bowstrings and the treated wood ready to be whittled down. ‘Better bring him some supplies though...’

She purchased several strings, and two lengths of treated yew-wood which the stallholder piled together and wrapped in cloth, forming a bundle which Samahl immediately hefted despite it being nearly as tall as him. Kit bought sweet pastries from the next stall over and they sat on the edge of the fountain to eat them while she pulled out the letter she’d been writing to Amaris and her sealable ink-pot. Her short quill was tattered and falling apart, but the steel nib still functioned and she dipped it quickly to add a scrawl to the bottom of the page.

 

 

*

**_[An addendum to a letter to Amaris Trevelyan, posted in Amaranthine, Ferelden, dated 18 August, 9:38 Dragon]_ **

 

_We’re in Ferelden now, travelling around – I’m writing this in the market square in Amaranthine. They’re still rebuilding after the Blight, but it’s a fantastic city, and I like the people here, they’re a no-nonsense sort. I suppose when you’ve been through the sort of things they have, you adopt a somewhat direct world view._

_Rumours are going around of some troubling news out of Orlais – it sounds like there could be civil war brewing, between du Chalons and Empress Celene. Weren’t they cousins? You know I didn’t pay attention to Orlesian lineages. Either way, I think we’ll be staying in Ferelden for the moment – there are a lot of refugees who’ve taken ship from the Marches, apostates and Circle mages fleeing the Templars and ordinary folk fleeing both. Perhaps this could become a ten-year thing – refugees from Ferelden to the Marches and then vice-versa a decade letter. Either way, plenty of people in need of sword-hands for hire._

_And then to top it all off the Chantry has disbanded the College of Enchanters – there was a decree on the Chanters board here. Far be it from me to question our Divine and her clerics, but the last time the Chantry imposed heavy sanctions on mages, well, Kirkwall Happened. Maybe it’s time they tried a different approach?_

_Maker, Divine Faustine II was not wrong when she said this would be an age of violence and upheaval._

_...see? I remember my histories at least._

_Love,_

_Kit_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not understand why this chapter was so gosh-darn hard to write. It's shorter than I usually aim for because I ended up cutting out a chunk to put into the next chapter, the pacing just wasn't working and I'm still not super happy with it. I think part of the problem is the actual Dragon Age timeline - basically the Kirkwall rebellion happens, everything is awful for most of 9:38/39 Dragon but otherwise nothing much changes - and then in 9:40 Dragon EVERYTHING GOES EVEN MORE WRONG all at once, which makes for a really interesting chapter covering the events of 9:40 leading up to directly prior to Conclave, but also makes this chapter very difficult. Anyway, the next chapter is half written as a result of me splicing them differently, and I wrote most of the bit immediately around the Conclave ages ago, so hopefully the next updates should come fairly rapidly. 
> 
> Title paraphrased from 'The Calm Before the Storm' by Herman Hoyte. I feel like the two years between Kirkwall literally exploding and then everything going tits up at the White Spire in 9:40 dragon must have felt a lot like that - hushed and very uneasy, with the threat of something much worse looming on the horizon, and I liked these lines in particular:  
> "The building suspense may break your heart,  
> But there is still a tempest that has to start.  
> You can shed tears, create your own rain,  
> but the coming storm still remains.  
> Stop. Stand.  
> Be a man.  
> Wait out the silence, stretch out your hand  
> Help up a companion, meet every demand.  
> Make use of the peace, take advantage the calm  
> wait out the prologue, do nothing more wrong."
> 
> I felt it was a very accurate portrayal of the mindset that Kit is cultivating as a result of travelling around Thedas in this particular, post-Kirkwall environment - a mindset that goes on to shape the choices she makes as Inquisitor further down the line.  
> I love writing on AO3, you get to put character development notes at the end of the chapter. *happy squishy noises*
> 
> Psst, if you catch any typos or dating mistakes (TIMELINES, BIOWARE, I HATE THEM AND APPARENTLY YOU DO TOO) please let me know - this is unbetaed and I'm writing a dissertation at the moment as well, which means lots of reading, lots of writing, my eyes getting more and more crossed every time I try to proofread....you know how it goes.  
> Thanks for the lovely comments I've had so far, and to everyone who's left Kudos! I make very strange sounds when I get the notifications, my cat possibly thinks I'm possessed.  
> 


	5. Rue The Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A DEFINITION NOT FOUND IN THE DICTIONARY
> 
> 'Not leaving; an act of trust and love,  
> often deciphered by children'
> 
> \- Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

**_[A letter from the Left Hand to the Right, 17 Guardian, 9:40 Dragon]_ **

_The Spire has fallen. We must act._

_*_

‘The rumours aren’t good.’ Stein rumbled, settling gingerly onto the rough-hewn bench beside Axel and opening his arms to allow Samahl to climb up and perch on his knee, still absorbed in the carved wooden puzzle Axel had given him to keep him distracted. The mage slid a tankard of spiced cider along to the larger man silently, dark eyes shadowed in his thin face.

‘When are they?’ he said quietly, and Stein wrapped one massive arm around his shoulders.

‘Let’s wait until Kit and Artemis get back before we decide the world is ending. Again.’ Konrad cautioned, kicking his long legs up on to the bench opposite to form a barrier, preventing the other patrons of the roadside inn from sidling past them. Sascha nodded silently, leant back against the wall in her seat, the picture of lounging grace, her golden gaze sweeping the room. At her shoulder, Sulahn turned her eyes to the arrows she was fletching, fingers quick and deft on the fine feathers.

When the two women returned, they were grim-faced and silent, shouldering their way through the crowd with their weapons openly displayed. One drunken farmer pawed at Artemis’ hip as she passed, and she snatched his knife from beside his plate, slamming it into the bench a hairs breadth from his groin.

‘No messing.’ Stein said approvingly as the farmer went white and Kit bent low to whisper something in his ear. They left him shuddering on the bench and shed their cloaks as they took their places at the table, Artemis falling voraciously on the plate of stew waiting for her, while Kit picked idly at a bread roll, brow furrowed.

‘There’s my deadly sweet pea.’ Konrad said dryly, kissing his wife’s temple. ‘Well?’

‘Bad.’ Artemis said succinctly, and gestured to Kit, her mouth full of stew.

‘She pretty much summed it up.’ Kit said, humorous despite her obvious worry. ‘Orlais is definitely at war, and Empress Celene has vanished. Du Chalons has control of the Western Highway, and there have been riots in Val Royeaux. They’ve actually closed the Sun Gates.’

‘Has that ever happened before?’ Axel said, startled. ‘I thought that was a big thing, that the Sun Gates were always open.’

‘9:22 Dragon.’  Kit said thickly around a mouthful of bread. ‘When – well, when an actual dragon attacked the city.’

She swallowed her mouthful and met their disbelieving looks defensively. ‘What? I had a good history tutor OK, he made even the Orlesians sound exciting.’

‘Aren’t you half-Orlesian?’ Axel queried.

‘One quarter.’ Kit snapped. ‘And I never met that grandfather.’

‘Another war then.’ Konrad mused, flicking a rolled up pellet of bread at Samahl. ‘Right when the Chantry has all but lost control of the mages completely, and is hanging on to the Templars with a tenuous grip. Excellent timing.’

‘Oh wait, there’s more.’ Artemis said darkly, pushing her plate away. ‘It’s not confirmed, but there’s reports that something big has been going down at the White Spire.’

‘White Spire?’ Sulahn queried, handing her one of the freshly-fletched arrows to examine.

‘Also in Val Royeaux – Orlais is doing really, really, well at the moment.’ Kit told her. ‘It’s the home of the local Circle of Magi, and the College of Enchanters. They keep the phylacteries of all the First Enchanters of all the Circles there, and it’s the stronghold of the Templar Order – the home of the Knight-Vigilant.’

‘I told you she would be useful to have around.’ Artemis told her husband. ‘She’s like a walking lore-book.’

‘Bite me.’ Kit told her, kicking her sharply in the shin under the table. ‘When you’ve had this stuff parroted at you for the better part of eighteen years, some of it is bound to stick.’

‘What kind of ‘something big’?’ Sascha interrupted before Artemis could retaliate.

‘Rebellion.’ Kit said succinctly, and scrubbed a hand through her hair. ‘Just rumours so far, but – no smoke without fire, right? Maker knows enough of the other Circles have fallen.’

She sighed, getting to her feet. ‘I need to write to Ris. I’ll be in our rooms.’

 

*

 

Cullen seemed unperturbed to find her waiting in his office, seated comfortably in the chair before his desk and watching the activity in the courtyard below through his narrow window.

‘Seeker Pentaghast.’ he sighed. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

‘Sit down, Knight-Commander.’ Cassandra said. ‘I have a proposition for you.’

He racked his armour first, shoulders slumped with weariness, and sank into the seat behind the desk like a man far older than his thirty-odd years. Cassandra ignored the voice piping in the back of her mind that the whole thing was a terrible idea, and trusted her first impression.

Cullen Rutherford was a man who believed in the true principles of the Order – to serve and protect. His service had been twisted from wide-eyed recruit to traumatised, mage-fearing knight by Uldred’s abominations, paranoia fed by Meredith’s power-games, but _he had stayed._ He had stood against Meredith in the end – _too little too late,_ some might have said – but beyond that, when the heroes and villains had all departed, leaving dust and rubble in their wake, he had stayed. He had taken terrified mages and shell-shocked templars and forced some semblance of co-operation between them in the face of desperation; he had revoked the Rite of Annulment and punished harshly the Templars who sought to finish it. He had focused on the need of the stricken people of Kirkwall.

He was a man aware of his flaws and seeking to be better. Who could be more suited?

 

*

 

‘Sascha. Wake up.’

Sascha grumbled, cracking one eye open to find Kit crouched over the bed, her face uncharacteristically serious, fully dressed and wrapped in her dark cloak.

‘What?’ she demanded, sitting bolt-upright.

‘News from Val Royeaux.’ Kit said. ‘I was at the morning service, overheard the sisters talking – a proclamation will go up on the board within the hour. I think we want to be there when it does.’

Sascha groaned, but wriggled out from beneath the covers fully, reaching for her clothes. ‘Wake the others, have them ready to move if necessary. We don’t want to get caught up in a riot. I’ll meet you down there.’

Kit nodded, vanishing from the room as Sascha pulled on her breeches and gambeson, shrugging her chainmail into place and shrouding herself in her own dark cloak, strapping her greatsword to her back and bundling their packs together ready for a quick leave-taking. She stopped by the other rooms long enough to check the rest of the pack were awake and moving, earning a boot to the face from an irate Artemis for the early hour, then hurried out of the inn and down towards the market square, where a small crowd had already gathered outside the Chantry. She shouldered her way through, ignoring the protests of those who foolishly got in her way, and found Kit standing directly before the board, her face pale in the early light.

‘The College of Enchanters has declared their independence, and the Lord Seeker has revoked the Nevarran Accord.’ she said blankly when Sascha reached her, peering up at the large sheet of parchment tacked to the board and stamped with the sunburst seal. ‘The Templars have abandoned the Chantry.’

Sascha let loose a volley of colourful Nevarran curses.

‘Well put.’ Kit said, a harsh laugh catching in her throat. ‘Maker’s breath, this is awful - ’

She shook her head, and met Sascha’s gaze, her eyes pained. ‘And it’s only going to get worse, isn’t it?’

 

 

*

 

**_[A letter read over coffee and pastries in the drawing room of the Antivan Embassy at Val Royeaux, hand-delivered on 12 Cloudreach, 9:40 Dragon]_ **

 

_My dearest Josie_

_It has been too long – I only regret now that I write to you for unhappy reasons. I hope at least, this letter finds you in good health and spirits._

_When last we spoke, you mentioned you were finding your position as Ambassador...unchallenging. A position has come to light for which I believe you would be eminently suited, old friend. As you have most likely heard rumours of, Most Holy intends to summon the leaders of Orlais, Ferelden and the Marches to a Conclave in the new year, with the hope of putting an end to this senseless conflict. With the main body of the Templar Order having split from the Chantry, we have found ourselves without support when we need it most – diplomatic, or military. Most Holy has charged Cassandra and I with correcting this, and I seek your aid. We require someone with your many talents, to help us build a force for peaceful change. It will not be easy – but you have never liked things to be simple, have you?_

_If you are interested, we should meet to discuss this further. I will be in the capital until the end of the month – do let me know. Regardless, I hope to see you soon._

_Leliana_

*

 

‘Have you seen these?’ Kit asked her, too low for the others to hear, urging Gaheris along by the wagon, his reins looped loosely over the pommel of his saddle. In her gloved hands she held a creased sheet of thick parchment, and Sascha shot her a curious look.

‘They’re everywhere,’ she said, glancing around the trail, ‘now that I’m looking for them, I keep finding them wherever we stop – towns, villages, forest clearings. But this one...’

She swallowed hard. ‘Listen.’

“ _When we heard of the injustices against our fellow mages at the White Spire, I feared what was to come. Our circle at Dairsmuid is small and isolated; it exists largely as a facade to appease the Chantry. When the other Circles rose up, the Chantry sent Seekers across the bay from Ayesleigh to investigate. They found us mixing freely with our families, training female mages in the traditions of the seers, and denounced us as apostates. Perhaps they thought we were spineless robes who could be intimidated with a little bloodshed. Before I was First Enchanter I was the daughter of Captain Revaud, of the Felicisimia Armada. I know how to plan a battle.”_

Kit’s voice was low and hoarse, and Sascha closed her eyes against the bright sun, helpless anger burning deep in her chest.

 _“They brought with them a small army of templars. We fought. And we might have won. But they invoked the Rite of Annulment, with all the unrelenting brutality that allowed. It is their right to put screaming apprentices to the sword, burn our "tainted" libraries, crush irreplaceable artifacts under their heels, tear down the very walls of our home. No mage has the right to disagree._ _We of the Dairsmuid Circle wait now, behind barricades. I have sent word to our brother and sister mages of this outrage._

_When they break through, we will not die alone._

_Thus ends the final journal entry of First Enchanter Rivella, slain in Dairsmuid, 9:40 Dragon_ _”_

She lowered the parchment slowly, and Sascha did not hide the tears burning in her eyes. She reached out her hand and Kit took it, squeezing hard, her gaze downcast.

‘Keep it.’ Sascha whispered. ‘Remember them. Whoever brought her last words out of Dairsmuid and threw them to the wind did so bravely.’

Kit wiped her face with her sleeve and tucked the folded parchment inside her shirt.

 

*

 

**_[A letter passed through a network of urchins in shadowy doorways, 23 Justinian, 9:40 Dragon]_ **

_Broody_ _,_

_It wasn’t enough. Seeker’s come for me again, and I don’t think I can brush her off this time. She’s dragging me to this damned Conclave to tell the story to the Divine herself – I can just see how that’s going to go down._

_Keep our mutual feathered friend out of trouble (I know it’s a big ask)._

_\- Fuzzy_

*

 

**_[A short note, dated 4 Kingsway, 9:40 Dragon, signed and stamped by Gavriel Trevelyan, Heir of House Trevelyan]_ **

_Kit,_

_Amaris is badly ill. The surgeon is not optimistic. You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe it was necessary – come home. She needs you._

_Gavriel_

*

 

‘Do you have to go?’ Samahl whispered, his face pressed into her stomach. Kit closed her eyes, aching and helpless in the face of the child’s tears.

‘Oh kid.’ she murmured, settling on the floor of the tent so she could hug him properly, pulling him into her lap, all gangly limbs just on the verge of being too big to be held comfortably. ‘I’m sorry, but I do. You remember my sister? Amaris? She’s very ill. I have to go be with her, just in case...in case it’s the last chance I have to say goodbye.’

‘But you’ll come back?’ he pressed, fingers wound tight in her shirt, and Kit curled over him, rocking gently from side to side as she rested her cheek against his curls, soothing.

‘One way or another.’ she promised. ‘We’ll see each other again, Samahl, I promise. I don’t know how long it will be, or where we’ll meet, but I will find you all. Besides, what’s the rule?’

She tapped the tattoo that winged the tip of her left eye, a fine-lined curved v of silvery ink flicked out onto her temple, a sweeping pattern of eight dots shaded beneath the lower line, and Samahl fumbled for a flat wooden amulet that hung around his neck, the same pattern carved into it.

‘Once pack, always pack.’ he recited, and stared pensively down at the talisman. ‘When can I get the tattoo?’

‘Once you’re fully grown, or when Sulahn says you can. Whichever comes first.’ Kit said, and kissed the tip of his nose, laughing as he scrunched his face in response, lower lip jutting in an exaggerated pout. ‘Now, pass me those and go say goodbye to Gaheris, alright?’

He handed her the rolled parcel of shirts to be stuffed into her pack and left the tent, scrubbing at his sticky face with the back of his cuff. Kit pressed the heel of her hand hard against her closed eyes, until they burned savagely – an easier sensation to deal with than the prickle of tears.

A callused dark hand stroked her cheek, caught her hand and pulled it down and Sascha kissed her, sweet and gentle, pressed her forehead to hers.

‘Wherever you go, you are pack.’ she murmured. ‘Howl to the stars and we will hear you.’

 Kit breathed out, shaky, and nodded once.

‘Hey.’ she said, catching Sascha’s hands. ‘Stop using me as a shield.’

Sascha’s golden eyes went narrow and wary, and Kit clung on grimly as she tried to pull back.

‘Nuh-uh, I’m not leaving this hanging when Maker only knows when I’ll be back.’ she said. ‘You and I had fun, Sascha, and that was all either of us needed from each other. But I see the way you look at Sulahn, and I see the way Sulahn looks at you, and that could be so much _more_ than what we have – _if_ you’re not too afraid to chase it.’

Sascha shook her head, disbelieving.

‘When did you grow so much, little lady?’ she murmured, stroking Kit’s hair back. ‘I remember a scrappy Marcher with soft hands and proper vowels, trying to talk like a mercenary.’

‘Do I bring up your awkward phases?’ Kit half-joked, cringing. ‘Everyone’s got to start somewhere.’

She got to her feet, hefted her pack, and let Sascha draw her into a tight, comforting embrace, her face tucked into the crook of the older woman’s throat.

‘Amaris is stronger than you think.’ Sascha murmured. ‘And surgeons are often wrong. Do not despair.’

‘I can’t lose her too.’ Kit said hollowly, dry eyes burning. She’d never been able to cry, since that night, the letter arriving by cloaked messenger in the rain, her grandmother’s hands shaking on the parchment, Amaris wailing in her arms. She’d run, instead, rejected the gentle hands reaching for her, barefoot and wild to the stables, to Gaheris, all of thirteen and curled on his broad back, crying into his mane until it seemed there could be no more tears to shed in all the world.

She wondered distantly if even this would be enough to teach her how to grieve.

‘You won’t.’ Sascha vowed, lips against her temple, a benediction and a prayer. She held her for another heartbeat, then stepped back and checked the crossed straps of her scabbards with business-like fingers, the fit of her leathers and bracers.

‘Gaheris is waiting.’ she said. ‘Come.’

Kit followed her out, embraced each of the pack in turn without thoroughfare, no needless words exchanged, and kissed Samahl’s wild curls as he clung to Sulahn, miserable and red-eyed. She embraced the elvhen woman gently and whispered in her ear, as Sulahn closed her eyes, nodded once, and kissed her on both cheeks, murmuring a Dalish blessing.

‘Ride fast.’ Sascha said once she had mounted and fastened her pack to the cantle, drawn her hood up against the morning chill. ‘The road is not safe. Do not look back.’

‘I’m a Draufgänger.’ Kit replied with a weak attempt at her cocksure grin, squeezing her hand briefly, and gathering the reins. ‘There’s nothing alive that can catch me.’

Gaheris sprang away at the tap of her heels, Kit crouched low over his withers and fighting the urge to look back, to watch them dwindle into the distance, lonely figures on the hilltop. His hooves thundered louder than her heartbeat and she packed the pain down, savage, practiced, folded away where it could do no harm.

‘Just you and me, pal.’ she murmured into his flying mane, her hands light on the reins. ‘The way it always has been.’

 

 

*

**_[A letter sent from Amaranthine by raven, dated 21 Kingsway, 9:40 Dragon]_ **

_Gav,_

_I’m coming. Tell her to hold on._

_K_

 

*

 

‘Knight-Commander!’

Cullen frowned, turning on his heel to peer up the steps, shading his eyes against the bright sun to find Knight-Captain Rylens hurrying down the steps towards him, out of breath and dishevelled, carrying his armour in a large pack slung over one shoulder. He elbowed his way through the disembarking crowd, and nearly ran face-first into a large grey horse being led from the hold by a figure in travel-stained leathers, dropping his pack as he threw out his hand to catch himself on the horse’s saddle.

The traveller pushed back their hood, revealing close-cut dark hair that flared red in the bright sunshine and a narrow, laughing face as she steadied the Captain, sticking out her foot to prevent his pack from sliding into the water. He apologised profusely, red-faced, but she waved him off, leading the visibly disgruntled horse into a quieter corner and busying herself checking his tack.

‘Maker’s breath, that beast is built like a wall.’ Rylen muttered as he reached Cullen, dumping his pack and looking over his shoulder at the grey. ‘Didn’t even flinch. Sorry ser, I was afraid I’d miss the tide.’

‘Miss the – what are you doing? I left you in charge of the Gallows.’

‘You did.’ Rylen agreed, straightening and pushing his dark hair back. He’d taken the chance to shave properly at some point – a luxury both he and Cullen had barely found time for the last few months – and the tattoos on his chin were crisply defined in the absence of stubble. ‘And then I resigned. Matherson’s succeeded me, and she’s appointing Donner as her second. He’s got a good solid head, and Matherson’s shown a lot of promise.’

‘I know, that’s why I recommended her as your second.’ Cullen said blankly. ‘What – _why_?’

‘Because you’re right, ser.’ Rylen said bluntly, his Starkhaven burr harsher than usual. ‘With the Accord revoked, we’re hobbled – those of us who actually want a peaceful resolution, that is. I don’t know what the outcome of this Conclave the Divine is planning to call will be, but I do think your Inquisition might be the only thing in position to mop up this mess – and I think you’re going to need men and women with a bit of experience with a sword. If you’ll have me, ser.’

Cullen set his own pack down, and held out his hand. Rylen clasped it firmly.

‘Welcome to the Inquisition, Knight-Captain.’ he said. ‘I’m glad to have you.’

He gestured to the gangplank and Rylen nodded, taking up his pack and boarding without looking back. Cassandra appeared on deck, looking first startled, then pleased by his appearance, speaking to him briefly before he went below. She leaned on the rail and looked down at Cullen, her expression thoughtful.

‘Are you ready, Knight-Commander?’

At the base of the great staircase, a young woman raised her voice in a sweet, simple melody, accompanied by a boy playing a lute, a shawl spread in front of them to collect meagre coins. The sound rippled out over the docks, the girl’s voice clear and unassuming.

_‘Black clouds are behind me,_

_I now can see ahead_

_Often I wonder why I try_

_Hoping for an end_

_Sorrow weighs my shoulders down_

_And trouble haunts my mind_

_But I know the present will not last_

_And tomorrow will be kinder’_   

Cullen took a deep breath, and set down his pack, unbuckling his gauntlets and tossing them down. The straps of his heavy pauldrons and cuirass gave way easily at his practiced touch, the motions rote and familiar, until he was stripped down to his gambeson and breeches, shrugging his sword-belt back into place over the padded material. The armour he left in a tidy pile at the side of the dock for scavengers, the sword of mercy emblazoned on the cuirass burning white in the bright winter sunshine.

Cassandra watched impassively as he turned his back on the city, mounting the gangplank, shoulders squared. He met her gaze as he stepped down onto the deck, the ship swaying gently on the turning tide.

‘If I am to lead these forces, I must stand for all.’ he said, quiet and resolute. ‘I will be a Templar no longer.’

She stared at him, and he got the distinct impression he had managed to surprise the unflappable warrior – before her face shifted into something closer to grudging, measured respect.

‘Then perhaps just ‘Commander’ would be more appropriate.’ she said, and stepped aside to allow a passing sailor to pull the gangplank aboard. The ropes slackened at the shout of the captain, sails billowing as the ship heeled over, headed for the narrow cutting and the open sea beyond.

Cullen dropped his pack at his feet, and though his instinct was to turn away, he stood and watched the city recede until the sheer stone walls closed in and hid it from view, the busker’s song fading mournfully into the cry of the gulls.

 

_‘Today I’ve cried a many tear_

_And pain is in my heart_

_Around me lies a sombre scene_

_I don’t know where to start_

_But I feel warmth on my skin_

_The stars have all aligned_

_The wind has blown_

_But now I know_

_That tomorrow will be kinder_

_‘Tomorrow will be kinder,_

_It’s true, I’ve seen it before_

_A brighter day, is coming our way_

_Yes, tomorrow will be kinder.’_

 

*

 

‘You may come and go as you please, dwarf.’ the Seeker said impassively, unlocking the cell door.

Varric hopped down from the narrow pallet, wincing as his boots splashed into half a foot of stinking bilgewater, and fought back rising nausea as the ship began to pitch and roll more fiercely.

‘How kind.’ he managed, with what he was sure was a ghastly grimace. ‘After all, the illusion of freedom is better than no freedom at all, right?’

‘If you would prefer to stay down here, you need only say the word, Varric.’ Cassandra said coolly, looping the keys back on her belt, her other hand resting threateningly on the hilt of her sword. Varric scurried past her, hiding a scowl.

‘Lets see – fresh air and rats, or bilgewater and present company.’ he drawled. ‘I’ll take the rats, personally.’

He headed for the gangway at speed, delivering the last barb over his shoulder as he went, and had the pleasure of hearing her faint, disgusted noise as he climbed up onto the deck, the icy wind and salt-spray stinging fiercely on his unprotected face. Around them the sea stretched grey and foreboding from horizon to horizon, the Marches coast a distant shadow behind them, fading rapidly. Varric stared at it gloomily, a wave of homesickness threatening to swamp him.

‘Andraste’s tits, I need a drink.’ he muttered as another wave lifted them in a heaving roll, his stomach mimicking the motion uneasily, and made his way astern in search of the crate Cassandra had grudgingly allowed him to bring – _after_ she had searched the contents.

He found instead a miserable man wrapped in a threadbare cloak and staring out to sea, the drizzle flattening blonde curls to his scalp despite the meagre shelter he had found in the leeward side of a stack of cargo. Varric considered him for a moment, liberated a bottle of whisky from his crate, and joined him at the rail.

‘You look like you need this even more than I do, friend.’ he drawled, taking a healthy swig, then offering the bottle. The man blinked, looked briefly left and right – then left and down – and Varric nearly spat the liquor over the side.

‘Maferath’s balls – _Knight-Captain?’_ he wheezed.

‘Commander.’ Cullen corrected absently, still staring at him in apparent bewilderment.

‘Sorry, didn’t realise you’d jumped straight into Meredith’s boots.’ Varric muttered, edging subtly away. ‘Look, my mistake, I’ll leave you to your...whatever it is you’re doing.’

‘No, I meant – I’ve left the Order. It’s just ‘Commander’, now. Or Cullen.’

Varric paused, blinked, entirely wrong-footed by the entire conversation, and then felt himself turn a horrendous shade of green as the ship pitched viciously, Cullen hastily catching the bottle of whisky from his faltering grasp as he lunged for the rail and emptied the meagre contents of his stomach over the side.

‘I hate boats. he growled, spitting. Cullen wiped the neck of the bottle and passed it back to him silently, and Varric swilled the fiery spirit around his mouth in distaste, spitting it over the side.

‘Waste of good liquor.’ he grumbled. Cullen looked dubious.

‘It smells like paint thinner.’ he said, gaze turning again to the horizon. ‘Each to their own.’

Varric grunted, swallowed the second mouthful, and felt it burn all the way down, stinging against his abused stomach.

‘Commander of what, then?’ he said sourly.

‘Seeker Pentaghast recruited me.’ he said, his pale hands curled over the railing, skin tinged faintly blue by the cold. ‘However the Conclave ends, it’s likely a neutral military force will be required to enforce peace.’

‘...Neutral, huh?’ Varric said slowly, eyeing him up and down. The jagged wound that had marked his face in the Gallows courtyard – _damn, had it really been more than two years since that night_? – had healed to a thin scar that bisected his upper lip, his once clean-shaven goatee had devolved into general stubble, and he looked exhausted and pale in the wind, barely recognisable without the shining shell of his plate armour.

Cullen met his gaze, but said nothing. They stood in silence for a long time, Varric sipping contemplatively from his bottle and battling grimly with his protesting stomach, until finally he could stand it no longer.

‘So you were ready to leave then? You’ve put a lot of effort into rebuilding the city to head for the hills two years after the fact.’

Cullen frowned, not at him but as if he were giving the idle comment serious thought.

‘...I cannot deny partial responsibility for what happened.’ he said. ‘I did my best to make what amends I could, but....there is little more I can do that others could not do better. Yes, I was ready to leave. All of it.’

‘Ferelden’s not likely to be any better, you know.’ Varric warned, something like pity stirring uneasily in his gut – or maybe it was just the seasickness.

Cullen looked contemplative.

‘I was there last during the Blight and then the Circle...’

He pulled a strange face, and after a long, bewildered moment, Varric realised it was in fact a pained, crooked smile.

‘Well, it can’t be _worse_.’

 

Varric stared at him, then at the bottle in his hand, and shook his head ruefully.

‘Well, full marks for effort Curly – not bad for a first attempt at optimism.’ he said, and clapped him on the back. ‘I’m going below before my chest hair freezes. Let me know if you want to play a round of cards sometime – between you and the Seeker, you’re looking astonishingly like the lesser evil.’

 

*

 

Kit pushed back her hood, breath crisping in the chill air, and gazed down road at the familiar, rolling fields, the orchards laden heavy with fruit under the bright autumn sunshine. Gaheris shifted underneath her, champing at the bit, and she rested her hand on his neck, soothing despite the worry roiling in her.

‘I know boy.’ she murmured. ‘I didn’t expect we’d ever come back. But it’s for Ris.’

She urged him into a comfortable, ground-covering trot, listening above the sounds of his hooves to the distant call of the stablehands summoning the dogs to their dinner, the stallions calling from the pens. She took the long route, avoiding the front entrance to the manor and instead detouring round onto the track by means of an easily jumped fence, and from there into the stableyard, where a long, familiar whistle greeted her.

‘Now there’s a sight I never thought I’d live to see.’

Kit sighed, though she couldn’t prevent a rueful smile from curling the corner of her mouth. ‘Hello Garrick. Been a while.’

‘A while? Closing on three years more like.’ the wizened old stablehand grunted, straightening from his lean on the barn door – or at least, as straight as Garrick ever managed, bandy-legged and bowed as he was.  ‘Come into the light then, let me look at you.’

Kit swung her leg over Gaheris' back, landing lightly on the balls of her feet, and shed her cloak, draping it over his saddle as she stepped to the side and spread her arms. ‘If you’re expecting much to have changed, then I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.’

He harrumphed, looking her up and down. ‘You’re not looking hard enough in the mirror if you think you’re the same girl that left. Heard about your little chat with m’lord at the Chantry back the spring before last – didn’t think we’d see you again after that.’

‘Didn’t think I’d be coming back.’ Kit said quietly, turning to look up at the house. ‘How’s my sister, Garrick?’

‘The little lady?’ Garrick queried, brow furrowed. ‘Fine, last I heard. She came to visit a week ago or so, the young Master and Missus have been talking about hiring her as their tutor once she’s taken her oaths.’

Kit stared at him, and reached into her leather jerkin to pull out a crumpled, well-thumbed letter and brandishing it at him like a talisman as if to ward off the creeping realisation unfurling in the back of her mind, rage burning banked and low. Garrick frowned at her, going faintly cross-eyed as she waved the parchment under his nose.

‘I received this a month and a half ago.’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve been travelling non-stop ever since, because my idiot brother wrote me a letter that made it sound like my sister was at death’s _Maker-damned door!’_

‘Lady Ris?’ Garrick repeated, and scowled. ‘You’ve been had, lass. She’s the picture of health, visits twice a week. Why would the young master send you that?’

Kit stared at him, then flicked open the letter and stared hard at her brother’s signature, the stamp of the signet ring belonging to the Heir of House Trevelyan, and snarled, letting loose a volley of Nevarran cussing that had Garrick blinking at her with some approaching grudging admiration.

‘Garrick.’ she said once she had run the gamut of Sascha’s favourite curses – a process that took some minutes – ‘Is my lord Father currently in residence?’

‘The old Bann? Aye lass, he’s been here a month or more – him, but not the Lady. They’ve had visitors staying, arrived a week ago, some Orlesian lordling and his mother.’

Kit did a bizarre, frustrated dance from foot to foot as if fighting to restrain herself. ‘Son of a – no, no, that’s cruel to Grandmother Evelyn. Garrick, give Gaheris some water, I’m going up to the house.’

‘Want me to get him settled for the night?’ Garrick offered, taking the charger’s reins. ‘Hello again, beauty. She been treating you right?’

‘If I stay the night, something has gone very, very wrong.’ Kit snarled, adjusting the fit of her scabbards on her back and stalking away, letter crumpled in her hand.

A handful of staff she didn’t recognise, presumably new hires, attempted to stop her in her advance through the mansion, but were swiftly pulled away by older hands who took one look at her face and decided discretion was the better part of valour. As she approached the formal dining room they melted from her path - save for one familiar face.

‘Don’t you _dare_ open that for me, Lionel, I have hands and they work _remarkably well_.’ Kit snapped at the old butler, whose papery, lined face seemed remotely unchanged – or remotely startled by her arrival.

‘Certainly, my Lady.’ he said blandly, bowing low. ‘Might I suggest you take the time to freshen up before you join your family and their guests for dinner? Your rooms have been kept and prepared for you arrival.’

‘Prepared for my – you knew I was coming? How?’

‘Bann Trevelyan the elder gave explicit instruction, my Lady.’ Lionel said straightening from his bow, not a flicker of confusion marring his impassive face. ‘I assumed you were returning home to finalise your engagement to Marquis d’Chastain.’

Kit lifted her face to the ceiling as if praying for patience, eyes tightly closed, then visibly exhaled, her shoulders lowering from their tight, defensive hunch to assume the unconsciously erect posture of a noblewoman born – the result of years of tutors engaging in the time-honoured tradition of thwacking their young charges with whatever was at hand at the slightest hint of a slouch.

‘Thank you, Lionel.’ she said, voice chillingly polite. ‘Please excuse me, I think it’s time I spoke to my family. Are they all in there? The Marquis as well? Wonderful.’

She strode past him, the swift, confident pace of a fighter on a mission, and slammed the heavy doors open with ease. They smacked into the walls on either side with a thunderous crash, the occupants of the room starting up from the table in shock.

 _‘Hello, father.’_ Kit snarled. ‘I’ll let you explain this one, shall I?’

‘Kit!’ Gavriel gasped, and stood fully, rounding the table towards her. ‘What on Thedas - ’

She thrust the letter at him, slapping it against his chest. ‘Read it.’

At the head of the table, Bann Trevelyan the Elder rose from his seat at the left-hand side of Gavriel’s abandoned chair, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin and setting it aside.

‘A most unseemly show, Caterina.’ he said, voice chillingly quiet. ‘Your rooms are prepared for you, as are your gowns. Lionel, please call Jeanette’s maid to help my daughter suitably attire herself for polite company.’

‘Lionel, I love you dearly, but if you attempt to lay one hand on me, I will hurt you.’ Kit vowed, savage with fury.

‘I didn’t write this.’ Gavriel said slowly at her shoulder, lifting his gaze. ‘That’s not my signature – though it’s very, very close. That _is_ my seal however.’

He stared at their father, the fine lines around his mouth deepening. ‘Father, what have you done?’

‘What I must.’ Bann Trevelyan snarled, temper suddenly breaking his cool demeanour. ‘As you should have done. You are to be the head of this family, sooner rather than later. You cannot allow your sister to gallivant across the land as a _mercenary_! I will not stand for it!’

‘Sit down then.’ Kit said coolly. ‘Because sitting or standing, it’s not going to change.’

She let her gaze sweep the room, falling on a man perhaps some ten years her senior, wearing a fine Orlesian mask which seemed to be patterned with the stylized arches of a branching tree, his blue eyes visibly wide with shock. At his side an elderly woman in a similar mask was fanning herself furiously, her cheeks bloodless, and Jeannette rose swiftly from her seat to cross to her side, shooting Kit a deeply exasperated look as she went, though the corner of her mouth was twitching.

‘Marquis d’Chastain, I presume?’ Kit said, and flawlessly executed the traditional bow of the Orlesian chevalier. ‘Allow me to apologise for my father’s machinations, but please be assured – I will not be marrying you, nor anyone else he picks out - or indeed, vaguely approves of.’

She straightened from her low bow, and shot him a particularly toothy grin. ‘Besides, now you’ve had a look at the goods, I’m sure you’ve changed your mind. I bet he didn’t tell you about the scars, hm? Or the tattoos. What about the twin-swords? Did he mention those?’

d’Chastain relaxed slowly in his chair, and dabbed delicately at his mouth with the corner of a napkin before rising and coming around the table towards her, the corner of his mouth tugging upward as he took her hand and bowed over it, brushing his lips dryly over her knuckles – seemingly unperturbed by her road-dusty skin and ragged fingernails.

‘He did not, my Lady.’ he said, accent distinctly Orlesian, though not to the nasal extremity affected by some of the peerage. ‘However, I remain delighted to finally make your acquaintance.’

‘Eh, good recovery.’ Kit told him, bewilderment stealing some of her focused rage. ‘But really. I’m not marrying you. Sorry he dragged you all this way.’

He released her hand, still smiling beneath his mask, and Kit gave him a narrow-eyed, suspicious look before she turned back to her brother.

‘So, now we’ve established that Amaris is actually fine, that I will not be marrying the Marquis, and that our father is a conniving weasel, I’ll just be on my way.’

Bann Trevelyan made an inarticulate growl of rage, and stormed from the room.

‘Is he heading for the stables? He’s heading for the stables – if he tries to hobble my Maker-damned horse, I’m going to gut him.’ Kit seethed, making to follow him. Gavriel caught her arm, patient.

‘Jeannette, darling, could you see to our guests please?’ he said, casting his wife a beseeching look. ‘I need a word with my _charming_ sister.’

‘Only if I’m allowed my turn once you’re done.’ Jeanette sighed, assisting the Marquis’s much bewildered mother from her chair. ‘It’s alright, Lady Rosaline, Kit – that is, Caterina – is all bluster. Come now, let’s retire to the drawing room while my husband untangles this sorry mess, yes? Marquis, would you care to join us?’

‘I would not dare intrude on what is clearly a long-delayed reunion.’ d’Chastain said, eyes dancing behind his mask. ‘My lady, it was a delight to make your acquaintance. I hope I shall have the chance to speak with you further.’

He turned to assist his mother, looping an arm through hers, and Kit stared after them as Jeannette shut the door to the drawing room with a pointedly gentle push.

‘Well that went a little differently than I was expecting.’ she said. ‘Where on earth did our idiot father find him?’

‘Kit.’

‘Don’t start.’ she warned him, shoving a hand through her hair – a hand, that now the room was emptied of all but the two of them, was visibly shaking. ‘Don’t _start_ Gav. I’ve been riding flat out for a month and a half thinking Amaris was on her deathbed because of that _arschloch_. I’m exhausted, I’ve wasted half my coin buying passage on the fastest ship I could find out of Ferelden, I’ve left my pack on the border between one country recovering from a Blight and the other openly at civil war – I am far beyond furious right now.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Gavriel said gently. ‘I didn’t know. You do believe me, when I say that?’

Kit softened, and let him reel her in to an embrace, tucking her head under his chin the way he had when they were children, stepping into the role of comforter that Liora had left behind her as best he could.

‘Of course I believe you, you sap.’ she mumbled into his collar. ‘You don’t have a duplicitous bone in your body Gav, it’s why mother despaired of you ever playing the Game. Where is she, anyway?’

‘Val Royeaux. She and Father...I don’t think they’ve spoken in nearly a year now. She’s independently wealthy of father, so he can’t do anything to force her to come back.’

‘I don’t think I’m ever going to understand our parents.’ Kit said frankly, leaning heavily against the dining table. Gavriel wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her from the room.

‘You’re exhausted.’ he said gently. ‘And no wonder. Stay a day or two, at least Kit. Gaheris must be half-dead – and don’t you want to meet your niece and nephew? I implore you, if they discover their mysterious aunt has been and gone while they were sleeping, they might never speak to me again. They adored the toys you sent them.’

Kit waved a hand. ‘One of the pack has incredible skill with woodcarving, it didn’t cost me anything to get him to make them a few pieces.’

She wavered, clearly exhausted and tempted by the prospect of a hot bath and warm bed, even if it involved remaining under the same roof as their father.

‘He’s leaving tomorrow.’ Gavriel said, apparently reading her face. ‘To Starkhaven, to visit the McClarens. Your sudden arrival explains why he was talking of putting off his departure - he must have been waiting for you.’

‘He won’t go, now I’ve spectacularly exploded his plans.’ Kit said, scrubbing a hand over her face. ‘He’s nothing if not tenacious.’

‘Yes, he will.’ Gavriel said calmly. ‘He’s already deeded the house and lands over to me, therefore I have the right to remove him from the grounds. He won’t want the scene that would cause. Trust me – by the time you wake tomorrow, Father will be gone for the season.’

‘Swear it?’ Kit said, somewhat pathetically. Gavriel kissed her temple.

‘Swear.’ he promised, and summoned Lionel to order a bath prepared in her rooms. ‘I’ll have the stablehands see to Gaheris and someone will bring your pack up to your room.’

Kit shook her head, straightening with some effort. ‘No, I’ll see to him myself – or at least untack him. He’s my damn horse, Gav.’

He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Whatever makes you happy, sister. The twins are already down for the night, but I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to meet you at breakfast tomorrow. I have no intention of forcing you to marry the Marquis, but do please at least be polite to them.’

 

*

 

‘So....staying the night?’ Garrick said dryly as Kit walked past the doors, dragging her feet.

‘Not a word old man.’ she sighed, turning to find Gaheris already installed in his stall in the barn, his tack vanished, dappled coat brushed clean of the dust of the road. He lifted his nose briefly from the feed bucket to nose at her hair, snuffling a fine shower of chewed grains over her, and went back to his dinner.

‘I would have done it.’ Kit said, stroking his neck. ‘I owe him that much, at least.’

‘He’s in good hands, lass.’ Garrick said. ‘I raised that horse from an awkward colt, I know his character. You get on up to the house and get a good nights rest.’

‘Fine, but leave his tack out for me.’ Kit said. ‘It’s not normal, and I’ll want to clean and repair it myself. Where’s my pack?’

‘Not normal?’ Garrick mouthed, and shook his head. ‘I don’t want to know. Here - ’

He handed her the pack and saddlebags she’d left ready for a quick getaway. ‘Good to have you back, even if it’s just for a day. Come down and see the herd tomorrow, there’s some yearlings you’d like.’

He left her in the barn, and she leant against Gaheris’ warm, reassuring bulk, pressing her face into the fall of his dark mane, familiar shelter. The sweet scent of hay and horse was infinitely reassuring, and she felt the knot of tension in her shoulders ease minutely, just enough that breathing no longer seemed quite so...difficult.

‘A few days.’ she murmured into his bowed neck as the charger continued to munch calmly at his feed. ‘We can manage a few days, right boy?’

 

Later, standing lost in the rooms she had once shared with Amaris, half the furniture still shrouded in dust sheets like a funeral dirge for a life arrested, she found herself digging her fingers obsessively through the short crop of her hair in a vain attempt to banish the phantom weight of the ladies braids that had once hung heavy down her spine. Tearing the sheet from the mirror revealed her – _scarred, inked, lean and hard and strong_ – and she pressed her palm flat against the cold surface, as if, with enough effort, she could push through the glass and claim the face staring back at her as a shield against the ghosts of memory at her back.

 

 _‘....I can’t do this at all._ ’ she thought, half-hysterical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- As everyone reading this presumably knows where things are headed (Conclave Boomtown yo), I'm trying to really play up the feeling of inevitability, that all these events and players are converging on this one fixed point and that nothing any of them do can change that. 
> 
> \- Also, I've always know my writing style is quite organic - I do a lot of outline planning, in terms of timelines and major events, but when it comes to the shading, I'm much more seat-of-your-pants kind of writer - BUT WHERE DO THESE CHARACTERS KEEP COMING FROM.  
> Meet Alban d'Chastain, everyone, he's wound up having a far bigger part in all this than I'd initially imagined. Twinkly-eyed Orlesian asshole. 
> 
> \- Poem of the day - 'Sparkle Spire', found here: http://allpoetry.com/poem/10978795-Sparkle-Spire--Unknown-Date--by-Asterus
> 
> 'The tallest towers get the light,  
> And shadow the battlements small  
> We will surely rue the day  
> When our proud structures fall'
> 
> \- The last journal entry of the First Enchanter of the Dairsmuid Circle is taken word for word from the DA:I codex entry, it can be found on the Dragon Age Wiki
> 
> \- Arschloch - arsehole. I'm still equating Nevarran with German, and I bet my high school German teacher never imagined this would be what I'd use five years of schooling for. 
> 
> \- The song the busker on the Kirkwall docks is singing is 'Tomorrow Will Be Kinder' by the Secret Sisters, from the Hunger Games soundtrack. It's a simple, mournful little melody that's still hopeful for all that. You can find it on youtube.  
> \- Varric, pls teach Cullen how to act like people.


End file.
